d, but each with the loss of an eye. After
a long furlough Private Clark returned to his regiment. Captain Mills,
now General Mills, is the Superintendent of the West Point Military
Academy.

Three times in the first week I went over those terrible roads from the
front to Siboney and return. Arriving at Siboney late one night, there
was no way I could get on board the State of Texas and I was obliged to
remain on shore. The Postmaster insisted that I occupy a room in the
building used for a post-office. Such a courtesy could not be refused,
and against all feeling of acquiescence, and with a dread as if there
were something wrong about it, I allowed myself to be helped out of the
wagon and entered the house. The Postmaster sat down and talked with me
a little while. I thought he seemed ill. I had never met him before, but
my heart went out in sympathy for him. I feared I was taking his room,
although he did not admit it.

I was shown into a room where there was a cot, a table, and a candle
without a stick, burning upon the table. The men went outside and laid
down upon the steps for the night. I laid down upon the cot, but it was
impossible for me to remain there. Something constantly warned me to
leave it. I got up, went to the door, looked out upon the night and
darkness, and waited for the gray of the morning. I went out and stood
upon the beach beside the sea and waited more and more, until finally
some of the men appeared, and I went with them down to the water.

Six days later they told me that the rightful occupant of the cot--the
Postmaster, who had seemed so ill--had died of a fever raging here that
they called "yellow fever." I had occupied his cot. I wonder who it was
that so continually warned me that night to keep away from that room,
away from the cot, away from all connected with it? "Yellow fever" was
not then talked of. Did some one tell me? I do not know--but something
told me.

The negotiations between General Shafter and the Spanish army at
Santiago were going on. The flag of truce, that threatened every day to
come down, still floated. The Spanish soldiers had been led by their
officers to believe that every man who surrendered--and the people as
well--would be butchered whenever the city should fall and the American
troops should come in. But when General Shafter commenced to send back
convoys of captured Spanish officers, their wounds dressed, and
carefully placed on stretchers, borne under fl