THE fog made the clothes of the column of men in the roadway seem of a

luminous quality. It imparted to the heavy infantry overcoats a new color, a

kind of blue which was so pale that a regiment might have been merely a

long, low shadow in the mist. However, a muttering, one part grumble, three parts joke, hovered in the air above the thick ranks, and blended in an undertoned roar, which was the voice of the column.

The town on the southern shore of the little river loomed spectrally, a

faint etching upon the gray cloud-masses which were shifting with oily

languor. A long row of guns upon the northern bank had been pitiless in

their hatred, but a little battered belfry could be dimly seen still

pointing with invincible resolution toward the heavens.

The enclouded air vibrated with noises made by hidden colossal things.

The infantry tramplings, the heavy rumbling of the artillery, made the earth speak of gigantic preparation. Guns on distant heights thundered from time to time with sudden, nervous roar, as if unable to endure in silence a knowledge of hostile troops massing, other guns going to position. These sounds, near and remote, defined an immense battle-ground, described the tremendous width of the stage of the prospective drama. The voice of the guns, slightly casual, unexcited in their challenges and warnings, could not destroy the unutterable eloquence of the word in the air, a meaning of impending struggle which made the breath halt at the lips.

The column in the roadway was ankle-deep in mud. The men swore piously at the rain, which drizzled upon them, compelling them to stand always very erect in fear of the drops that would sweep in under their coat-collars. The fog was as cold as wet clothes. The men stuffed their hands deep in their pockets, and huddled their muskets in their arms. The machinery of orders had rooted these soldiers deeply into the mud precisely as almighty nature roots mullein stalks.

They listened and speculated when a tumult of fighting came from the dim town across the river. When the noise lulled for a time, they resumed their descriptions of the mud and graphically exaggerated the number of hours they had been kept waiting. The general commanding their division rode along the ranks, and they cheered admiringly, affectionately, crying out to him gleeful prophecies of the coming battle. Each man scanned him with a peculiarly keen personal interest, and afterwards spoke of him with

unquestioning devotion and confidence, narrating anecdotes which were mainly untrue.

When the jokers lifted the shrill voices which invariably belonged to

them, flinging witticisms at their comrades, a loud laugh would sweep from

rank to rank, and soldiers who had not heard would lean forward and demand repetition. When were borne past them some wounded men with gray and blood-smeared faces, and eyes that rolled in that helpless beseeching for assistance from the sky which comes with supreme pain, the soldiers in the mud watched intently, and from time to time asked of the bearers an account of the affair. Frequently they bragged of their corps, their division, their brigade, their regiment. Anon, they referred to the mud and the cold drizzle. Upon this threshold of a wild scene of death they, in short, defied the proportion of events with that splendor of heedlessness which belongs only to veterans.

"Like a lot of wooden soldiers," swore Billie Dempster, moving his feet

in the thick mass, and casting a vindictive glance indefinitely; "standing

in the mud for a hundred years."

"Oh, shut up!" murmured his brother Dan. The manner of his words implied that this fraternal voice near him was an indescribable bore. "Why should I shut up?" demanded Billie. "Because you're a fool," cried Dan, taking no time to debate it; "the biggest fool in the regiment."

There was but one man between them, and he was habituated. These insults from brother to brother had swept across his chest, flown past his face, many times during two long campaigns. Upon this occasion he simply grinned first at one, then at the other.

The way of these brothers was not an unknown topic in regimental gossip. They had enlisted simultaneously, with each sneering loudly at the other for doing it. They left their little town, and went forward with the flag,

exchanging protestations of undying suspicion. In the camp life they so

openly despised each other that, when entertaining quarrels were lacking,

their companions often contrived situations calculated to bring forth

display of this fraternal dislike.

Both were large-limbed, strong young men, and often fought with friends

in camp unless one was near to interfere with the other. This latter

happened rather frequently, because Dan, preposterously willing for any

manner of combat, had a very great horror of seeing Billie in a fight; and

Billie, almost odiously ready himself, simply refused to see Dan stripped to

his shirt and with his fists aloft. This sat queerly upon them, and made

them the objects of plots.

When Dan would jump through a ring of eager soldiers and drag forth his raving brother by the arm, a thing often predicted would almost come to

pass. When Billie performed the same office for Dan, the prediction would

again miss fulfilment by an inch. But indeed they never fought together, although they were perpetually upon the verge.

They expressed longing for such conflict. As a matter of truth, they had

at one time made full arrangement for it, but even with the encouragement

and interest of half of the regiment they somehow failed to achieve

collision.

If Dan became a victim of police duty, no jeering was so destructive to

the feelings as Billie's comment. If Billie got a call to appear at the

headquarters, none would so genially prophesy his complete undoing as Dan. Small misfortunes to one were, in truth, invariably greeted with hilarity by the other, who seemed to see in them great reenforcement of his opinion.

As soldiers, they expressed each for each a scorn intense and blasting.

After a certain battle, Billie was promoted to corporal. When Dan was told

of it, he seemed smitten dumb with astonishment and patriotic indignation.

He stared in silence, while the dark blood rushed to Billie's forehead, and

he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Dan at last found his tongue, and

said: "Well, I'm durned!" If he had heard that an army mule had been

appointed to the post of corps commander, his tone could not have had more derision in it. Afterward, he adopted a fervid insubordination, an almost religious reluctance to obey the new corporal's orders, which came near to developing the desired strife.

It is here finally to be recorded also that Dan, most ferociously

profane in speech, very rarely swore in the presence of his brother; and

that Billie, whose oaths came from his lips with the grace of falling

pebbles, was seldom known to express himself in this manner when near his brother Dan.

At last the afternoon contained a suggestion of evening. Metallic cries

rang suddenly from end to end of the column. They inspired at once a quick, business-like adjustment. The long thing stirred in the mud. The men had hushed, and were looking across the river. A moment later the shadowy mass of pale-blue figures was moving steadily toward the stream. There could be heard from the town a clash of swift fighting and cheering. The noise of the shooting coming through the heavy air had its sharpness taken from it, and sounded in thuds.

There was a halt upon the bank above the pontoons. When the column went winding down the incline, and streamed out upon the bridge, the fog had faded to a great degree, and in the clearer dusk the guns on a distant ridge were enabled to perceive the crossing. The long whirling outcries of the shells came into the air above the men. An occasional solid shot struck the surface of the river, and dashed into view a sudden vertical jet. The

distance was subtly illuminated by the lightning from the deep-booming guns. One by one the batteries on the northern shore aroused, the innumerable guns bellowed in angry oration at the distant ridge. The rolling thunder crashed and reverberated as a wild surf sounds on a still night, and to this music the column marched across the pontoons.

The waters of the grim river curled away in a smile from the ends of the

great boats, and slid swiftly beneath the planking. The dark, riddled walls

of the town upreared before the troops, and from a region hidden by these

hammered and tumbled houses came incessantly the yells and firings of a

prolonged and close skirmish.

When Dan had called his brother a fool, his voice had been so decisive,

so brightly assured, that many men had laughed, considering it to be great

humor under the circumstances. The incident happened to rankle deep in

Billie. It was not any strange thing that his brother had called him a fool.

In fact, he often called him a fool with exactly the same amount of cheerful

and prompt conviction, and before large audiences, too. Billie wondered in

his own mind why he took such profound offence in this case; but, at any

rate, as he slid down the bank and on to the bridge with his regiment, he

was searching his knowledge for something that would pierce Dan's blithesome spirit. But he could contrive nothing at this time, and his impotency made the glance which he was once able to give his brother still more malignant.

The guns far and near were roaring a fearful and grand introduction for

this column which was marching upon the stage of death. Billie felt it, but

only in a numb way. His heart was cased in that curious dissonant metal

which covers a man's emotions at such times. The terrible voices from the

hills told him that in this wide conflict his life was an insignificant

fact. They portended the whirlwind to which he would be as necessary as a

waved butterfly's wing. The solemnity, the sadness of it came near enough to make him wonder why he was neither solemn nor sad. When his mind vaguely adjusted events according to their importance to him, it appeared that the uppermost thing was the fact that upon the eve of battle, and before many comrades, his brother had called him a fool.

Dan was in a particularly happy mood. "Hurray! Look at 'em shoot," he

said, when the long witches' croon of the shells came into the air. It

enraged Billie when he felt the little thorn in him, and saw at the same

time that his brother had completely forgotten.

The column went from the bridge into more mud. At this southern end

there was a chaos of hoarse directions and commands. Darkness was coming upon the earth, and regiments were being hurried up the slippery bank. As Billie floundered in the black mud, amid the swearing, sliding crowd, he suddenly resolved that, in the absence of other means of hurting Dan, he would avoid looking at him, refrain from speaking to him, pay absolutely no heed to his existence; and this done skilfully would, he imagined, soon reduce his brother to a poignant sensitiveness.

At the top of the bank the column again halted, and rearranged itself,

as a man after a climb rearranges his clothing. Presently the great

steel-backed brigade, an infinitely graceful thing in the rhythm and ease of

its veteran movement, swung up a little narrow, slanting street.

Evening had come so swiftly that the fighting on the remote borders of

the town was indicated by thin flashes of flame. Some building was on fire,

and its reflection upon the clouds was an oval of delicate pink.

ALL demeanor 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 drift-wood 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 cauldron 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 gray, 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 board 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."

"No such thing," cried Dan. He and the man on the horse-hair trunk held discussion, in which Dan stoutly maintained

that if his brother had been sent on picket it was an injustice. He

ceased his argument when another soldier, upon whose arms could faintly be seen the two stripes of a corporal, entered the circle. "Humph," said Dan, "where you been?"

The corporal made no answer. Presently Dan said: "Billie, where you

been?"

The corporal made no answer. Presently Dan said: "Billie, where you

been?"

His brother did not seem to hear these inquiries. He glanced at the

house which towered above them, and remarked casually to the man on the horse-hair trunk: "Funny, ain't it? After the pelting this town got, you'd

think there wouldn't be one brick left on another."

"Oh," said Dan, glowering at his brother's back. "Getting mighty smart,

ain't you?"

The absence of camp-fires allowed the evening to make apparent its

quality of faint silver light in which the blue clothes of the throng became

black, and the faces became white expanses, void of expression. There was

considerable excitement a short distance from the group around the doorstep. A soldier had chanced upon a hoop-skirt, and arrayed in it he was performing a dance amid the applause of his companions. Billie and a greater part of the men immediately poured over there, to witness the exhibition.

"What's the matter with Billie?" demanded Dan of the man upon the

horse-hair trunk.

"How do I know?" rejoined the other in mild resentment. He arose and

walked away. When he returned he said briefly, in a weather-wise tone, that it would rain during the night.

Dan took a seat upon one end of the horse-hair trunk. He was facing the

crowd around the dancer, which in its hilarity swung this way and that way. At times he imagined that he could recognize his brother's face.

He and the man on the other end of the trunk thoughtfully talked of the

army's position. To their minds, infantry and artillery were in a most

precarious jumble in the streets of the town; but they did not grow nervous

over it, for they were used to having the army appear in a precarious jumble to their minds. They had learned to accept such puzzling situations as a consequence of their position in the ranks, and were now usually in

possession of a simple but perfectly immovable faith that somebody

understood the jumble. Even if they had been convinced that the army was a

headless monster, they would merely have nodded with the veteran's singular cynicism. It was none of their business as soldiers. Their duty was to grab sleep and food when occasion permitted, and cheerfully fight wherever their feet were planted, until more orders came. This was a task sufficiently absorbing.

They spoke of other corps, and this talk being confidential, their

voices dropped to tones of awe. "The Ninth" -- "The First" -- "The Fifth" --

"The Sixth" -- "The Third" -- the simple numerals rang with eloquence, each

having a meaning which was to float through many years as no intangible

arithmetical mist, but as pregnant with individuality as the names of

cities.

Of their own corps they spoke with a deep veneration, an idolatry, a

supreme confidence which apparently would not blanch to see it matched

against everything.

It was as if their respect for other corps was due partly to a wonder

that organizations not blessed with their own famous numeral could take such an interest in war. They could prove that their division was the best in the corps, and that their brigade was the best in the division. And their

regiment -- it was plain that no fortune of life was equal to the chance

which caused a man to be born, so to speak, into this command, the proud

keystone of the defending arch.

At times Dan covered with insults the character of a vague, unnamed

general to whose petulance and busy-body spirit he ascribed the order which made hot coffee impossible.

Dan said that victory was certain in the coming battle. The other man

seemed rather dubious. He remarked upon the fortified line of hills, which

had impressed him even from the other side of the river. "Shucks," said Dan. "Why, we -- " He pictured a splendid overflowing of these hills by the sea of men in blue. During the period of this conversation Dan's glance searched the merry throng about the dancer. Above the babble of voices in the street a far-away thunder could sometimes be heard -- evidently from the very edge of the horizon -- the boom-boom of restless guns.

Ultimately the night deepened to the tone of black velvet. The outlines

of the fireless camp were like the faint drawings

upon ancient tapestry. The glint of a rifle, the shine of a button might

have been of threads of silver and gold sewn upon the fabric of the night.

There was little presented to the vision, but to a sense more subtle there

was discernible in the atmosphere something like a pulse; a mystic beating

which would have told a stranger of the presence of a giant thing -- the

slumbering mass of regiments and batteries.

With fires forbidden, the floor of a dry old kitchen was thought to be a

good exchange for the cold earth of December, even if a shell had exploded

in it, and knocked it so out of shape that when a man lay curled in his

blanket his last waking thought was likely to be of the wall that bellied

out above him as if strongly anxious to topple upon the score of soldiers.

Billie looked at the bricks ever about to descend in a shower upon his

face, listened to the industrious pickets plying their rifles on the border

of the town, imagined some measure of the din of the coming battle, thought of Dan and Dan's chagrin, and, rolling over in his blanket, went to sleep with satisfaction.

At an unknown hour he was aroused by the creaking of boards. Lifting

himself upon his elbow, he saw a sergeant prowling among the sleeping forms. The sergeant carried a candle in an old brass

candlestick. He would have resembled some old farmer on an unusual

midnight tour if it were not for the significance of his gleaming buttons

and striped sleeves.

Billie blinked stupidly at the light until his mind returned from the

journeys of slumber. The sergeant stooped among the unconscious soldiers, holding the candle close, and peering into each face.

"Hello, Haines," said Billie. "Relief?" "Hello, Billie," said the

sergeant. "Special duty." "Dan got to go?" "Jameson, Hunter, McCormack, D. Dempster. Yes. Where is he?" "Over there by the winder," said Billie,

gesturing. "What is it for, Haines?"

"You don't think I know, do you?" demanded the sergeant. He began to

pipe sharply but cheerily at men upon the floor. "Come, Mac, get up here.

Here's a special for you. Wake up, Jameson. Come along, Dannie, me boy."

Each man at once took this call to duty as a personal affront. They

pulled themselves out of their blankets, rubbed their eyes, and swore at

whoever was responsible. "Them's orders," cried the sergeant. "Come! Get out of here." An undetailed head, with dishevelled hair, thrust out from a

blanket, and a sleepy voice said: "Shut up, Haines, and go home."

When the detail clanked out of the kitchen, all but one of the remaining

men seemed to be again asleep. Billie, leaning on his elbow, was gazing into

darkness. When the footsteps died to silence, he curled himself into his

blanket.

At the first cool lavender lights of daybreak he aroused again, and

scanned his recumbent companions. Seeing a wakeful one he asked: "Is Dan back yet?"

The man said: "Hain't seen 'im."

Billie put both hands behind his head, and scowled into the air. "Can't

see the use of these cussed details in the nighttime," he muttered in his

most unreasonable tones. "Darn nuisances. Why can't they -- " He grumbled at length and graphically.

When Dan entered with the squad, however, Billie was convincingly

asleep.

The regiment trotted in double time along the street, and the colonel

seemed to quarrel over the right of way with many artillery officers.

Batteries were waiting in the mud, and the men of them, exasperated by the bustle of this ambitious infantry, shook their fists from saddle and

caisson, exchanging all manner of taunts and jests. The slanted guns

continued to look reflectively at the ground.

On the outskirts of the crumbled town a fringe of blue figures were

firing into the fog. The regiment swung out into skirmish lines, and the

fringe of blue figures departed, turning their backs and going joyfully

around the flank.

The bullets began a low moan off toward a ridge which loomed faintly in

the heavy mist. When the swift crescendo had reached its climax, the

missiles zipped just overhead, as if piercing an invisible curtain. A

battery on the hill was crashing with such tumult that it was as if the guns

had quarrelled and had fallen pell-mell and snarling upon each other. The

shells howled on their journey toward the town. From short-range distance

there came a spatter of musketry, sweeping along an invisible line and

making faint sheets of orange light.

Some in the new skirmish lines were beginning to fire at various shadows discerned in the vapor, forms of men suddenly revealed by some humor of the laggard masses of clouds. The crackle of musketry began to dominate the purring of the hostile bullets. Dan, in the front rank, held his rifle poised, and looked into the fog keenly, coldly, with the air of a sportsman. His nerves were so steady that it was as if they had been drawn from his body, leaving him merely a muscular machine; but his numb heart was somehow beating to the pealing march of the fight.

The waving skirmish line went backward and forward, ran this way and

that way. Men got lost in the fog, and men were found again. Once they got

too close to the formidable ridge, and the thing burst out as if repulsing a

general attack. Once another blue regiment was apprehended on the very edge of firing into them. Once a friendly battery began an elaborate and

scientific process of extermination. Always as busy as brokers, the men slid

here and there over the plain, fighting their foes, escaping from their

friends, leaving a history of many movements in the wet yellow turf, cursing

the atmosphere, blazing away every time they could identify the enemy.

In one mystic changing of the fog, as if the fingers of spirits were

drawing aside these draperies, a small group of the gray

skirmishers, silent, statuesque, were suddenly disclosed to Dan and those

about him. So vivid and near were they that there was something uncanny in the revelation.

There might have been a second of mutual staring. Then each rifle in

each group was at the shoulder. As Dan's glance flashed along the barrel of

his weapon, the figure of a man suddenly loomed as if the musket had been a telescope. The short black beard, the slouch hat, the pose of the man as he sighted to shoot, made a quick picture in Dan's mind. The same moment, it would seem, he pulled his own trigger, and the man, smitten, lurched forward, while his exploding rifle made a slanting crimson streak in the air, and the slouch hat fell before the body. The billows of the fog,

governed by singular impulses, rolled between.

"You got that feller sure enough," said a comrade to Dan. Dan looked at

him absent-mindedly.

When the next morning calmly displayed another fog, the men of the

regiment exchanged eloquent comments; but they did not abuse it at length, because the streets of the town now contained enough galloping aides to make three troops of cavalry, and they knew that they had come to the verge of the great fight.

Dan conversed with the man who had once possessed a horse-hair trunk; but they did not mention the line of hills which had furnished them in more careless moments with an agreeable topic. They avoided it now as condemned men do the subject of death, and yet the thought of it stayed in their eyes as they looked at each other and talked gravely of other things.

The expectant regiment heaved a long sigh of relief when the sharp call,

"Fall in!" repeated indefinitely, arose in the streets. It was inevitable

that a bloody battle was to be fought, and they wanted to get it off their

minds. They were, however, doomed again to spend a long period planted

firmly in the mud. They craned their necks, and wondered where some of the other regiments were going.

At last the mists rolled carelessly away. Nature made at this time all

provisions to enable foes to see each other, and immediately the roar of

guns resounded from every hill. The endless cracking of the skirmishers

swelled to rolling crashes of musketry. Shells screamed with panther-like

noises at the houses. Dan looked at the man of the horse-hair trunk, and the man said: "Well, here she comes!"

The tenor voices of younger officers and the deep and hoarse voices of

the older ones rang in the streets. These cries pricked like spurs. The

masses of men vibrated from the suddenness with which they were plunged into the situation of troops about to fight. That the orders were long-expected did not concern the emotion.

Simultaneous movement was imparted to all these thick bodies of men and horses that lay in the town. Regiment after regiment swung rapidly into the streets that faced the sinister ridge.

This exodus was theatrical. The little sober-hued village had been like

the cloak which disguises the king of drama. It was now put aside, and an

army, splendid thing of steel and blue, stood forth in the sunlight.

Even the soldiers in the heavy columns drew deep breaths at the sight,

more majestic than they had dreamed. The heights of the enemy's position

were crowded with men who resembled people come to witness some mighty

pageant. But as the column moved steadily to their positions, the guns,

matter-of-fact warriors, doubled their number, and shells burst with red

thrilling tumult on the crowded plain. One came into the ranks of the

regiment, and after the smoke and the wrath of it had faded, leaving

motionless figures, every one stormed according to the limits of his

vocabulary, for veterans detest being killed when they are not busy.

The regiment sometimes looked sideways at its brigade companions

composed of men who had never been in battle; but no frozen blood could

withstand the heat of the splendor of this army before the eyes on the

plain, these lines so long that the flanks were little streaks, this mass of

men of one intention. The recruits carried themselves heedlessly. At the

rear was an idle battery, and three artillerymen in a foolish row on a

caisson nudged each other and grinned at the recruits. "You'll catch it

pretty soon," they called out. They were impersonally gleeful, as if they

themselves were not also likely to catch it pretty soon. But with this

picture of an army in their hearts, the new men perhaps felt the devotion

which the drops may feel for the wave; they were of its power and glory;

they smiled jauntily at the foolish row of gunners, and told them to go to blazes.

The column trotted across some little bridges, and spread quickly into

lines of battle. Before them was a bit of plain, and back of the plain was

the ridge. There was no time left for considerations. The men were staring

at the plain, mightily wondering how it would feel to be out there, when a

brigade in advance yelled and charged. The hill was all gray smoke and

fire-points.

That fierce elation in the terrors of war, catching a man's heart and

making it burn with such ardor that he becomes capable of dying, flashed in the faces of the men like colored lights, and made them resemble leashed animals, eager, ferocious, daunting at nothing. The line was really in its first leap before the wild, hoarse crying of the orders.

The greed for close quarters which is the emotion of a bayonet charge

came then into the minds of the men and developed until it was a madness. The field, with its faded grass of a Southern winter, seemed miles in width to this fury.

High, slow-moving masses of smoke, with an odor of burning cotton,

engulfed the line until the men might have been swimmers. Before them the ridge, the shore of this gray sea, was outlined, crossed, and re-crossed by sheets of flame. The howl of the battle arose to the noise of innumerable

wind demons.

The line, galloping, scrambling, plunging like a herd of wounded horses,

went over a field that was sown with corpses, the records of other charges.

Directly in front of the black-faced, whooping Dan, carousing in this

onward sweep like a new kind of fiend, a wounded man appeared, raising his shattered body, and staring at this rush of men down upon him. It seemed to occur to him that he was to be trampled; he made a desperate, piteous effort to escape; then finally huddled in a waiting heap. Dan and the soldier near him widened the interval between them without looking down, without appearing to heed the wounded man. This little clump of blue seemed to reel past them as bowlders reel past a train.

Bursting through a smoke-wave, the scampering, unformed bunches came upon the wreck of the brigade that had preceded them, a floundering mass stopped afar from the hill by the swirling volleys.

It was as if a necromancer had suddenly shown them a picture of the fate which awaited them; but the line with a muscular spasm hurled itself over this wreckage and onward, until men were stumbling amid the relics of other assaults, the point where the fire from the ridge consumed.

The men, panting, perspiring, with crazed faces, tried to push against

it; but it was as if they had come to a wall. The wave halted, shuddered in

an agony from the quick struggle of its two desires, then toppled, and broke

into a fragmentary thing which has no name.

Veterans could now at last be distinguished from recruits. The new

regiments were instantly gone, lost, scattered, as if they never had been.

But the sweeping failure of the charge, the battle, could not make the

veterans forget their business. With a last throe, the band of maniacs drew

itself up and blazed a volley at the hill, insignificant to those iron

intrenchments, but nevertheless expressing that singular final despair which enables men to coolly defy the walls of a city of death.

After this episode the men renamed their command. They called it the

Little Regiment.

"I seen Dan shoot a feller yesterday. Yes, sir. I'm sure it was him that

done it. And maybe he thinks about that feller now, and wonders if he

tumbled down just about the same way. Them things come up in a man's mind."

Bivouac fires upon the sidewalks, in the streets, in the yards, threw

high their wavering reflections, which examined, like slim, red fingers, the

dingy, scarred walls and the piles of tumbled brick. The droning of voices

again arose from great blue crowds.

The odor of frying bacon, the fragrance from countless little

coffee-pails floated among the ruins. The rifles, stacked in the shadows,

emitted flashes of steely light. Wherever a flag lay horizontally from one

stack to another was the bed of an eagle which had led men into the mystic

smoke.

The men about a particular fire were engaged in holding in check their

jovial spirits. They moved whispering around the blaze, although they looked at it with a certain fine contentment, like laborers after a day's hard

work.

There was one who sat apart. They did not address him save in tones

suddenly changed. They did not regard him directly, but always in little

sidelong glances.

At last a soldier from a distant fire came into this circle of light. He studied for a time the man who sat apart. Then he hesitatingly stepped closer, and said: "Got any news, Dan?"

"No," said Dan.

The new-comer shifted his feet. He looked at the fire, at the sky, at

the other men, at Dan. His face expressed a curious despair; his tongue was plainly in rebellion. Finally, however, he contrived to say: "Well, there's

some chance yet, Dan. Lots of the wounded are still lying out there, you

know. There's some chance yet."

"Yes," said Dan.

The soldier shifted his feet again, and looked miserably into the air.

After another struggle he said: "Well, there's some chance yet, Dan." He

moved hastily away.

One of the men of the squad, perhaps encouraged by this example, now

approached the still figure. "No news yet, hey?" he said, after coughing

behind his hand.

"No," said Dan.

"Well," said the man, "I've been thinking of how he was fretting about

you the night you went on special duty. You recollect? Well, sir, I was

surprised. He couldn't say enough about it. I swan, I don't believe he slep'

a wink after you left, but just lay awake cussing special duty and worrying.

I was surprised. But there he lay cussing. He -- "

Dan made a curious sound, as if a stone had wedged in his throat. He

said: "Shut up, will you?"

Afterward the men would not allow this moody contemplation of the fire

to be interrupted.

"Oh, let him alone, can't you?"

"Come away from there, Casey!"

"Say, can't you leave him be?"

They moved with reverence about the immovable figure, with its

countenance of mask-like invulnerability.

AFTER the red round eye of the sun had stared at the little plain and

its burden, darkness, a sable mercy, came heavily upon it, and the wan hands of the dead were no longer seen in strange frozen gestures.

The heights in front of the plain shone with tiny camp-fires, and from

the town in the rear, small shimmerings ascended from the blazes of the

bivouac. The plain was a black expanse upon which, from time to time, dots

of light, lanterns, floated slowly here and there. These fields were long

steeped in grim mystery.

Suddenly, upon one dark spot, there was a resurrection. A strange thing

had been groaning there, prostrate. Then it suddenly dragged itself to a

sitting posture, and became a man.

The man stared stupidly for a moment at the lights on the hill, then

turned and contemplated the faint coloring over the town. For some moments he remained thus, staring with dull eyes, his face unemotional, wooden.

Finally he looked around him at the corpses dimly to be seen. No change

flashed into his face upon viewing these men. They seemed to suggest merely that his information concerning himself was not too complete. He ran his fingers over his arms and chest, bearing always the air of an idiot upon a bench at an almshouse door.

Finding no wound in his arms nor in his chest, he raised his hand to his

head, and the fingers came away with some dark liquid upon them. Holding

these fingers close to his eyes, he scanned them in the same stupid fashion, while his body gently swayed.

The soldier rolled his eyes again toward the town. When he arose, his

clothing peeled from the frozen ground like wet paper. Hearing the sound of

it, he seemed to see reason for deliberation. He paused and looked at the

ground, then at his trousers, then at the ground.

Finally he went slowly off toward the faint reflection, holding his

hands palm outward before him, and walking in the manner of a blind man.

THE immovable Dan again sat unaddressed in the midst of comrades, who did not joke aloud. The dampness of the usual morning fog seemed to make the little camp-fires furious.

Suddenly a cry arose in the streets, a shout of amazement and delight.

The men making breakfast at the fire looked up quickly. They broke forth in

clamorous exclamation: "Well! Of all things! Dan! Dan! Look who's coming!

Oh, Dan!"

Dan the silent raised his eyes and saw a

man, with a bandage the size of a helmet about his head, receiving a

furious demonstration from the company. He was shaking hands, and

explaining, and haranguing to a high degree.

Dan started. His skin of bronze flushed to his temples. He seemed about

to leap from the ground, but then suddenly he sank back, and resumed his

impassive gazing.

The men were in a flurry. They looked from one to the other. "Dan! Look!

See who's coming!" some cried again. "Dan! Look!"

He scowled at last, and moved his shoulders sullenly. "Well, don't I

know it?"

But they could not be convinced that his eyes were in service. "Dan! Why

can't you look? See who's coming!"

He made a gesture then of irritation and rage. "Curse it! Don't I know

it?"

The man with a bandage of the size of a helmet moved forward, always

shaking hands and explaining. At times his glance wandered to Dan, who sat with his eyes riveted.

After a series of shiftings, it occurred naturally that the man with the

bandage was very near to the man who saw the flames. He paused, and there was a little silence. Finally he said: "Hello, Dan."

"Hello, Billie."