United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
Once, when we were not halted or harkening, we heard overmuch; heard
that which brought us to an instant stand and caused even Miss Harper to
gaze on me with dismayed eyes and parted lips, and the blood to go
thumping through my veins. From a few hundred yards off in the
northwest, beyond the far corner of an old field and the woods at its
back, two gunshots together, then a third, with sharp, hot cries of
alarum and command, and then another and another shot, rang out and
spread wanderingly across the tender landscape.
X
THE SOLDIER'S HOUR
To regain the highroad we had turned into a northerly fork, and were in
as lovely a spot as we had seen all day. Before us and close on our
right were the dense woods of magnolia, water-oak, tupelo and a hundred
other affluent things that towered and spread or clambered and hung. On
the left lay the old field, tawny with bending sedge and teeming with
the yellow rays of the sun's last hour. This field we overlooked through
a fence-row of persimmon and wild plum. Among these bushes, half fallen
into a rain-gully, a catalpa, of belated bloom, was loaded with blossoms
and bees, and I was directing Camille's glance to it when the shots
came. Another outcry or two followed, and then a weird silence.
"Some of our boys attacked by a rabbit," I suggested, but still
hearkened.
"That was not play, Mr. Smith," Miss Harper had begun to respond, when a
voice across the sedge-field called with startling clearness,
"Hi! there goes one of them!--Halt!--Halt, you blue--" pop!--pop!--pop!
"Prisoners making a break!" I forgot all my tatters and stood on tiptoe
in the stirrups to overpeer the fence-row. The next instant--"Sh--sh!"
said I and slid to the ground. "Hold this bridle!" I gave it to Camille.
"Don't one of you make a sound or a motion; there's a Yankee coming
across this field in the little gully just behind us."
I bent low, ran a few steps, cocking my revolver as I went. Then I rose,
peeped, bent again, ran, rose, peeped, waited a few seconds behind the
catalpa, and without rising peeped once more. Here he came! He was an
officer. His uniform was torn and one whole side of him showed he had at
some earlier hour ridden through a hedge and fallen from his horse. On
he came! nearer--nearer--oh, what a giant! Quickly, warily, he crouched
under the fence where it hung low across the gully, and half through it
in that huddled posture he found my revolver between his astonished
eyes. I did not yell at him, for I did not want the men he had escaped
from to come and take him from me; yet when I said, "Halt, or you die!"
the four ladies heard me much too plainly. For, frankly, I said more and
worse. I felt my slenderness, my beardless youth, my rags, and his
daring, and to offset them all in a bunch, I--I cursed him. I let go
only one big damn and I've never spoken one since, though I've done many
a worse thing, of course. I protest it was my modesty prompted it then.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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