CHAPTER 8
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he trees began softly to sing a hymn of twilight. The sun sankuntil slanted bronze rays struck the forest. There was a lull in thenoises of insects as if they had bowed their beaks and weremaking a devotional pause. There was silence save for thechanted chorus of the trees. Then, upon this stillness, there suddenly broke a tremendousclangor of sounds. A crimson roar came from the distance. The youth stopped. He was transfixed by this terrific medleyof all noises. It was as if worlds were being rended. There wasthe ripping sound of musketry and the breaking crash of theartillery. His mind flew in all directions. He conceived the two armiesto be at each other panther fashion. He listened for a time. Thenhe began to run in the direction of the battle. He saw that it wasan ironical thing for him to be running thus toward that whichhe had been at such pains to avoid. But he said, in substance, tohimself that if the earth and the moon were about to clash, manypersons would doubtless plan to get upon the roofs to witness thecollision. As he ran, he became aware that the forest had stopped itsmusic, as if at last becoming capable of hearing the foreignsounds. The trees hushed and stood motionless. Everythingseemed to be listening to the crackle and clatter and earshakingthunder. The chorus pealed over the still earth. It suddenly occurred to the youth that the fight in which hehad been was, after all, but perfunctory popping. In the hearingof this present din he was doubtful if he had seen real battlescenes. This uproar explained a celestial battle; it was tumblinghordes a-struggle in the air. Reflecting, he saw a sort of a humor in the point of view ofhimself and his fellows during the late encounter. They hadtaken themselves and the enemy very seriously and hadimagined that they were deciding the war. Individuals must havesupposed that they were cutting the letters of their names deepinto everlasting tablets of brass, or enshrining their reputationsforever in the hearts of their countrymen, while, as to fact, theaffair would appear in printed reports under a meek andimmaterial title. But he saw that it was good, else, he said, inbattle every one would surely run save forlorn hopes and theirilk. He went rapidly on. He wished to come to the edge of theforest that he might peer out. As he hastened, there passed through his mind pictures ofstupendous conflicts. His accumulated thought upon suchsubjects was used to form scenes. The noise was as the voice ofan eloquent being, describing. Sometimes the brambles formed chains and tried to hold himback. Trees, confronting him, stretched out their arms andforbade him to pass. After its previous hostility this newresistance of the forest filled him with a fine bitterness. It seemedthat Nature could not be quite ready to kill him. But he obstinately took roundabout ways, and presently hewas where he could see long gray walls of vapor where lay battlelines. The voices of cannon shook him. The musketry sounded inlong irregular surges that played havoc with his ears. He stoodregardant for a moment. His eyes had an awestruck expression.He gawked in the direction of the fight. Presently he proceeded again on his forward way. The battlewas like the grinding of an immense and terrible machine to him.Its complexities and powers, its grim processes, fascinated him.He must go close and see it produce corpses. He came to a fence and clambered over it. On the far side,the ground was littered with clothes and guns. A newspaper,folded up, lay in the dirt. A dead soldier was stretched with hisface hidden in his arm. Farther off there was a group of four orfive corpses keeping mournful company. A hot sun had blazedupon the spot. In this place the youth felt that he was an invader. Thisforgotten part of the battle ground was owned by the dead men, and he hurried, in the vague apprehension that one of theswollen forms would rise and tell him to begone. He came finally to a road from which he could see in thedistance dark and agitated bodies of troops, smoke-fringed. Inthe lane was a blood-stained crowd streaming to the rear. Thewounded men were cursing, groaning, and wailing. In the air,always, was a mighty swell of sound that it seemed could swaythe earth. With the courageous words of the artillery and thespiteful sentences of the musketry mingled red cheers. And fromthis region of noises came the steady current of the maimed. One of the wounded men had a shoeful of blood. He hoppedlike a schoolboy in a game. He was laughing hysterically. One was swearing that he had been shot in the arm throughthe commanding general’s mismanagement of the army. One wasmarching with an air imitative of some sublime drum major.Upon his features was an unholy mixture of merriment andagony. As he marched he sang a bit of doggerel in a high andquavering voice: “Sing a song ’a vic’try, A pocketful ’a bullets,Five an’ twenty dead menBaked in a—pie.” Parts of the procession limped and staggered to this tune. Another had the gray seal of death already upon his face. Hislips were curled in hard lines and his teeth were clinched. Hishands were bloody from where he had pressed them upon hiswound. He seemed to be awaiting the moment when he shouldpitch headlong. He stalked like the specter of a soldier, his eyesburning with the power of a stare into the unknown. There were some who proceeded sullenly, full of anger attheir wounds, and ready to turn upon anything as an obscurecause. An officer was carried along by two privates. He waspeevish. “Don’t joggle so, Johnson, yeh fool,” he cried. “Think m’leg is made of iron? If yeh can’t carry me decent, put me downan’ let some one else do it.” He bellowed at the tottering crowd who blocked the quickmarch of his bearers. “Say, make way there, can’t yeh? Make way, dickens take it all.” They sulkily parted and went to the roadsides. As he wascarried past they made pert remarks to him. When he raged inreply and threatened them, they told him to be damned. The shoulder of one of the tramping bearers knocked heavilyagainst the spectral soldier who was staring into the unknown. The youth joined this crowd and marched along with it. Thetorn bodies expressed the awful machinery in which the men hadbeen entangled. Orderlies and couriers occasionally broke through the throngin the roadway, scattering wounded men right and left, gallopingon followed by howls. The melancholy march was continuallydisturbed by the messengers, and sometimes by bustling batteriesthat came swinging and thumping down upon them, the officersshouting orders to clear the way. There was a tattered man, fouled with dust, blood andpowder stain from hair to shoes, who trudged quietly at theyouth’s side. He was listening with eagerness and much humilityto the lurid descriptions of a bearded sergeant. His lean featureswore an expression of awe and admiration. He was like a listenerin a country store to wondrous tales told among the sugarbarrels. He eyed the story-teller with unspeakable wonder. Hismouth was agape in yokel fashion. The sergeant, taking note of this, gave pause to his elaboratehistory while he administered a sardonic comment. “Be keerful,honey, you ’ll be a-ketchin’ flies,” he said.
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