The yelling had ceased, but the grinding and rattling heard through the detonation of cannon came nearer still, and suddenly there was a shower of leaves and twigs from the lower branches of a chestnut-tree near the broken hedge.As the smoke thinned again a rising and falling medley of flapping hats, tossing horses' heads and shining steel appeared for an instant, advancing tumultuously up the slope.But the apparition was as instantly cloven by flame from the two nearest guns, and went down in a gush of smoke and roar of sound.So level was the delivery and so close the impact that a space seemed suddenly cleared between, in which the whirling of the shattered remnants of the charging cavalry was distinctly seen, and the shouts and oaths of the inextricably struggling mass became plain and articulate.Then a gunner serving the nearest piece suddenly dropped his swab and seized a carbine, for out of the whirling confusion before them a single rider was seen galloping furiously towards the gun.
The red-capped young officer rode forward and knocked up the gunner's weapon with his sword.For in that rapid glance he had seen that the rider's reins were hanging loosely on the neck of his horse, who was still dashing forwards with the frantic impetus of the charge, and that the youthful figure of the rider, wearing the stripes of a lieutenant,--although still erect, exercised no control over the animal.The face was boyish, blond, and ghastly;the eyes were set and glassy.It seemed as if Death itself were charging the gun.
Within a few feet of it the horse swerved before a brandished rammer, and striking the cheeks of the gun-carriage pitched his inanimate rider across the gun.The hot blood of the dead man smoked on the hotter brass with the reek of the shambles, and be-spattered the hand of the gunner who still mechanically served the vent.As they lifted the dead body down the order came to "cease firing." For the yells from below had ceased too; the rattling and grinding were receding with the smoke farther to the left.The ominous central cloud parted for a brief moment and showed the unexpected sun glittering down the slope upon a near and peaceful river.
The young artillery officer had dismounted and was now gently examining the dead man.His breast had been crushed by a fragment of shell; he must have died instantly.The same missile had cut the chain of a locket which slipped from his opened coat.The officer picked it up with a strange feeling--perhaps because he was conscious himself of wearing a similar one, perhaps because it might give him some clue to the man's identity.It contained only the photograph of a pretty girl, a tendril of fair hair, and the word "Sally." In the breast-pocket was a sealed letter with the inscription, "For Miss Sally Dows.To be delivered if I fall by the mudsill's hand." A faint smile came over the officer's face;he was about to hand the articles to a sergeant, but changed his mind and put them in his pocket.
Meantime the lane and woods beyond, and even the slope itself, were crowding with supports and waiting troops.His own battery was still unlimbered, waiting orders.There was a slight commotion in the lane.
"Very well done, captain.Smartly taken and gallantly held."It was the voice of a general officer passing with his staff.
There was a note of pleasant relief in its tone, and the middle-aged, care-drawn face of its owner was relaxed in a paternal smile.
The young captain flushed with pleasure.
"And you seem to have had close work too," added the general, pointing to the dead man.
The young officer hurriedly explained.The general nodded, saluted, and passed on.But a youthful aide airily lingered.
"The old man's feeling good, Courtland," he said."We've rolled 'em up all along the line.It's all over now.In point of fact, Ireckon you've fired the last round in this particular fratricidal engagement."The last round! Courtland remained silent, looking abstractedly at the man it had crushed and broken at his feet.
"And I shouldn't wonder if you got your gold-leaf for to-day's work.But who's your sunny Southern friend here?" he added, following his companion's eyes.
Courtland repeated his story a little more seriously, which, however, failed to subdue the young aide's levity."So he concluded to stop over," he interrupted cheerfully."But," looking at the letter and photograph, "I say--look here! 'Sally Dows?'
Why, there was another man picked up yesterday with a letter to the same girl! Doc Murphy has it.And, by Jove! the same picture too!--eh? I say, Sally must have gathered in the boys, and raked down the whole pile! Look here, Courty! you might get Doc Murphy's letter and hunt her up when this cruel war is over.Say you're 'fulfilling a sacred trust!' See? Good idea, old man! Ta-ta!"and he trotted quickly after his superior.
Courtland remained with the letter and photograph in his hand, gazing abstractedly after him.The smoke had rolled quite away from the fields on the left, but still hung heavily down the south on the heels of the flying cavalry.A long bugle call swelled up musically from below.The freed sun caught the white flags of two field hospitals in the woods and glanced tranquilly on the broad, cypress-fringed, lazy-flowing, and cruel but beautiful Southern river, which had all unseen crept so smilingly that morning through the very heart of the battle.