The thunder of big guns, Cervera's doom, and truce at the trenches. A
trying week of hot sun, cool nights, tropical rains, and fevers. Then a
harmless little bombardment one Sunday afternoon--that befitted the day;
another week of heat and cold and wet and sickness. After that, the
surrender--and the fierce little war was over.

Meantime, sick and wounded were homeward bound, and of the Crittendens
Bob was the first to reach Canewood. He came in one morning, hungry and
footsore, but with a swagger of importance that he had well earned.

He had left his Young Captain Basil at Old Point Comfort, he said, where
the boy, not having had enough of war, had slipped aboard a transport
and gone off with the Kentucky Legion for Porto Rico--the unhappy Legion
that had fumed all summer at Chickamauga--and had hoisted sail for Porto
Rico, without daring to look backward for fear it should be wigwagged
back to land from Washington.

Was Basil well?

"Yas'm. Young Cap'n didn' min' dat little bullet right through his neck
no mo'n a fly-bite. Nothin' gwine to keep dat boy back."

They had let him out of the hospital, or, rather, he had gotten out by
dressing himself when his doctor was not there. An attendant tried to
stop him.

"An' Young Cap'n he jes drew hisself up mighty gran' an' says: 'I'm
going to join my regiment,' he says. 'It sails to-morrow.' But Ole Cap'n
done killed," Bob reckoned; "killed on top of the hill where they druv
the Spaniards out of the ditches whar they wus shootin' from."