United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
and then the drowsy god pressed down my heavy eyelids, and I fell
asleep.
CHAPTER XXII
THE BATTLE IN THE SHENANDOAH
To me it has always seemed remarkable that after all my other battle
experiences--Antietam, Gettysburg, the Wilderness, ay! even including
that first fierce baptism of fire at Manassas--no action in which I ever
participated should remain so clearly photographed upon memory as this
last desperate struggle for supremacy in the Shenandoah. Every minute
detail of the conflict, at least so far as I chanced to be a personal
participant, rises before me as I write, and I doubt not I could trace
to-day each step taken upon that stricken field.
The reveille had not sounded when I first awoke and, rolling from my
blanket, looked about me. Already a faint, dim line of gray, heralding
the dawn, was growing clearly defined in the east, and making manifest
those heavy fog-banks which, hanging dank and low, obscured the valley.
The tired men of my troop were yet lying upon the ground, wrapped
tightly in their blankets, oblivious of the deadly work before them; but
I could hear the horses already moving uneasily at their picket-ropes,
and observed here and there the chilled figure of a sentry leaning upon
his gun, oddly distorted in form by the enveloping mist.
Directly in advance of where we rested, a long hill sloped gently upward
for perhaps a hundred yards, its crest topped with a thick growth of
young oak-trees, yet seemingly devoid of underbrush. No troops were
camped in our immediate front, and feeling curious to ascertain
something of our formation, as well as to examine the lay of the land
between us and the position occupied by the enemy, I walked slowly
forward, unhindered, until I attained the crest. Numberless birds were
singing amid the branches overhead, while the leaves of the low bushes I
passed on my way were glistening with dew. Except for those long rows
of sleeping soldiers, I seemed utterly alone within some rural solitude
upon a quiet Sabbath morning. Not an unwonted sound reached me to make
discord; so quiet, indeed, was all the earth that I became startled
by the sudden chatter of a squirrel disturbed at my approach, and
unthinkingly I stooped to pluck a delicate pink flower blooming in the
grass, and placed it in a ragged buttonhole of my old gray jacket.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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