The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 12, No. 73, November, 1863: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
History
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 12, No. 73, November, 1863: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
"Were you with him when he was wounded? How was it?"
"Yes, Ma'am. There was somethin' queer about it; for he 'peared to know
the chap that killed him, an' the chap knew him. I don't dare to ask,
but I rather guess one owned the other some time,--for, when they
clinched, the chap sung out, 'Bob!' an' Dane, 'Marster Ned!'--then they
went at it."
I sat down suddenly, for the old anger and compassion struggled in my
heart, and I both longed and feared to hear what was to follow.
"You see, when the Colonel--Lord keep an' send him back to us!--it a'n't
certain yet, you know, Ma'am, though it's two days ago we lost
him--well, when the Colonel shouted, 'Rush on, boys, rush on!' Dane tore
away as if he was goin' to take the fort alone; I was next him, an' kept
close as we went through the ditch an' up the wall. Hi! warn't that a
rusher!" and the boy flung up his well arm with a whoop, as if the mere
memory of that stirring moment came over him in a gust of irrepressible
excitement.
"Were you afraid?" I said,--asking the question women often put, and
receiving the answer they seldom fail to get.
"No, Ma'am!"--emphasis on the "Ma'am,"--"I never thought of anything but
the damn' Rebs, that scalp, slash, an' cut our ears off, when they git
us. I was bound to let daylight into one of 'em at least, an' I did.
Hope he liked it!"
"It is evident that you did, and I don't blame you in the least. Now go
on about Robert, for I should be at work."
"He was one of the fust up; I was just behind, an' though the whole
thing happened in a minute, I remember how it was, for all I was yellin'
an' knockin' round like mad. Just where we were, some sort of an officer
was wavin' his sword an' cheerin' on his men; Dane saw him by a big
flash that come by; he flung away his gun, give a leap, an' went at that
feller as if he was Jeff, Beauregard, an' Lee, all in one. I scrabbled
after as quick as I could, but was only up in time to see him git the
sword straight through him an' drop into the ditch. You needn't ask what
I did next, Ma'am, for I don't quite know myself; all I'm clear about
is, that I managed somehow to pitch that Reb into the fort as dead as
Moses, git hold of Dane, an' bring him off. Poor old feller! we said we
went in to live or die; he said he went in to die, an' he's done it."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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