The Little Regiment eBook

II

All demeanour of rural serenity had been wrenched violently from the little town by the guns and by the waves of men which had surged through it.  The hand of war laid upon this village had in an instant changed it to a thing of remnants.  It resembled the place of a monstrous shaking of the earth itself.  The windows, now mere unsightly holes, made the tumbled and blackened dwellings seem skeletons.  Doors lay splintered to fragments.  Chimneys had flung their bricks everywhere.  The artillery fire had not neglected the rows of gentle shade-trees which had lined the streets.  Branches and heavy trunks cluttered the mud in driftwood tangles, while a few shattered forms had contrived to remain dejectedly, mournfully upright.  They expressed an innocence, a helplessness, which perforce created a pity for their happening into this caldron of battle.  Furthermore, there was under foot a vast collection of odd things reminiscent of the charge, the fight, the retreat.  There were boxes and barrels filled with earth, behind which riflemen had lain snugly, and in these little trenches were the dead in blue with the dead in grey, the poses eloquent of the struggles for possession of the town, until the history of the whole conflict was written plainly in the streets.

And yet the spirit of this little city, its quaint individuality, poised in the air above the ruins, defying the guns, the sweeping volleys; holding in contempt those avaricious blazes which had attacked many dwellings.  The hard earthen sidewalks proclaimed the games that had been played there during long lazy days, in the careful, shadows of the trees.  “General Merchandise,” in faint letters upon a long board, had to be read with a slanted glance, for the sign dangled by one end; but the porch of the old store was a palpable legend of wide-hatted men, smoking.

This subtle essence, this soul of the life that had been, brushed like invisible wings the thoughts of the men in the swift columns that came up from the river.

In the darkness a loud and endless humming arose from the great blue crowds bivouacked in the streets.  From time to time a sharp spatter of firing from far picket lines entered this bass chorus.  The smell from the smouldering ruins floated on the cold night breeze.

Dan, seated ruefully upon the doorstep of a shot-pierced house, was proclaiming the campaign badly managed.  Orders had been issued forbidding camp-fires.

Suddenly he ceased his oration, and scanning the group of his comrades, said:  “Where’s Billie?  Do you know?”

“Gone on picket.”

“Get out!  Has he?” said Dan.  “No business to go on picket.  Why don’t some of them other corporals take their turn?”

A bearded private was smoking his pipe of confiscated tobacco, seated comfortably upon a horse-hair trunk which he had dragged from the house.  He observed:  “Was his turn.”