The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce, Volume 01Bierce, Ambrose
General
The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce, Volume 01
Bierce, Ambrose
Fiction
Our batteries were probably toiling after us somewhere; we could only hope
the enemy might delay his attack until they should arrive. "He may delay
his defense if he like," said a sententious young officer to whom I had
imparted this natural wish. He had read the signs aright; the words were
hardly spoken when a group of staff officers about the brigade commander
shot away in divergent lines as if scattered by a whirlwind, and galloping
each to the commander of a regiment gave the word. There was a momentary
confusion of tongues, a thin line of skirmishers detached itself from the
compact front and pushed forward, followed by its diminutive reserves of
half a company each--one of which platoons it was my fortune to command.
When the straggling line of skirmishers had swept four or five hundred
yards ahead, "See," said one of my comrades, "she moves!" She did indeed,
and in fine style, her front as straight as a string, her reserve
regiments in columns doubled on the center, following in true
subordination; no braying of brass to apprise the enemy, no fifing and
drumming to amuse him; no ostentation of gaudy flags; no nonsense. This
was a matter of business.
In a few moments we had passed out of the singular oasis that had so
marvelously escaped the desolation of battle, and now the evidences of the
previous day's struggle were present in profusion. The ground was
tolerably level here, the forest less dense, mostly clear of undergrowth,
and occasionally opening out into small natural meadows. Here and there
were small pools--mere discs of rainwater with a tinge of blood. Riven and
torn with cannon-shot, the trunks of the trees protruded bunches of
splinters like hands, the fingers above the wound interlacing with those
below. Large branches had been lopped, and hung their green heads to the
ground, or swung critically in their netting of vines, as in a hammock.
Many had been cut clean off and their masses of foliage seriously impeded
the progress of the troops. The bark of these trees, from the root upward
to a height of ten or twenty feet, was so thickly pierced with bullets and
grape that one could not have laid a hand on it without covering several
punctures. None had escaped. How the human body survives a storm like this
must be explained by the fact that it is exposed to it but a few moments
at a time, whereas these grand old trees had had no one to take their
places, from the rising to the going down of the sun. Angular bits of
iron, concavo-convex, sticking in the sides of muddy depressions, showed
where shells had exploded in their furrows. Knapsacks, canteens,
haversacks distended with soaken and swollen biscuits, gaping to disgorge,
blankets beaten into the soil by the rain, rifles with bent barrels or
splintered stocks, waist-belts, hats and the omnipresent sardine-box--all
the wretched debris of the battle still littered the spongy earth as far
as one could see, in every direction. Dead horses were everywhere; a few
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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