broke it. That was when the spark went
out of him. I heard Lieutenant Pfaender calling Flickner! Flickner! and saw
myself going back through the blackjack scrubs without even looking round. I
saw again the things I'd seen at the Landing, the hangdog faces of the skulkers
turning to jeer, the wounded laid out in rows on the wharf all bloody, muddy
from being tramped on; Buell's army coming off the
steamboats, calling us cowards to our faces— and us taking it; and finally I
saw myself the way I was now, sitting in the rain and telling myself that
Buterbaugh was wrong. I wasn’t demoralized back there at the sunken road: I hadn’t
even lost confidence. I was just plain scared, as scared as a man can be, and
that was why I walked away from the fight.
Just thinking it, I was panting like the dog. And soon as I
thought it—You were just plain scared, I thought—I wished I had let it alone.
Because being demoralized or losing confidence was all right. Like Buterbaugh
said, it was a thing that closed in on you from outside, a thing you couldn’t
help. But being scared was different. It was inside you, just you yourself, and
that was a horse of a different color. That meant I would have to do something
about it, or live with it for the balance of my life. So I went up the bluff.
I didn’t say anything to the others, and only the
Michigander looked up as I walked away. I thought maybe it would be a good idea
to take a poke at him before I left, but what was the use after all? Bango was
sleeping—anyhow he hadn’t moved. The rain was coming down harder now; when I
cleared the top of the bluff it came against me in sheets, driven by the wind,
and there was a steady moaning sound in the limbs of the trees. Then I saw
campfires. They followed a ridge and overlooked a gully, drawing a wide low
half-mile semicircle against the night. Siege guns, big ones long and black
against the firelight, were ranged along that ridge with their muzzles reaching
out toward the rebel lines. Later I heard that a colonel by the name of
Webster—he was on Grant's staff— had placed them there, and with the help of
some of the light artillery and rallied infantry, they formed the line that
broke the final charge that evening. But I didn’t know this now; I just saw the
siege guns against the campfires strung out along the ridge.
Then I passed a log house with lanterns burning and wounded
men lying half-naked on sawhorse tables, being held down by attendants while
the surgeons worked on them. The surgeons wore their sleeves rolled up, arms
bloody past the elbows; from time to time one would stop and take a pull at a
bottle. The wounded screamed like women, high and trembly ,
and the attendants had to hold them tight to keep them from bucking off the
tables.
I went past in a hurry, picking my way among those laid out
to wait their turn in the house. It was pitch black dark and the rain was
coming down harder, blowing up for a storm. Everywhere I went there were men on
the ground, singly or in groups, and most of them sleeping. But no matter who I
asked, not a one of them could tell me how to find my outfit.
"Where will I find the 1st Minnesota Battery?"
"Never heard of them." That was always the answer.
Once I saw a man huddled in a poncho, leaning back against
the trunk of a big oak. But when I went over to ask him, I saw his face and
backed away. He could have told me, maybe, but I didn’t ask him. It was General
Grant. He had that same worried look on his face, only more so. Earlier he'd
tried to get some sleep in the log house where I saw the surgeons, but the
screams of the wounded and the singing of the bone-saws drove him out into the
rain. Remembering all I saw when I went past—surgeons with their sleeves rolled
high and bloody arms and legs thrown in a pile outside an open window—I couldn’t
say I blamed him.
It went on that way: "Never heard of them," until
finally I gave up trying to locate the battery. I thought I'd better
out of him. I heard Lieutenant Pfaender calling Flickner! Flickner! and saw
myself going back through the blackjack scrubs without even looking round. I
saw again the things I'd seen at the Landing, the hangdog faces of the skulkers
turning to jeer, the wounded laid out in rows on the wharf all bloody, muddy
from being tramped on; Buell's army coming off the
steamboats, calling us cowards to our faces— and us taking it; and finally I
saw myself the way I was now, sitting in the rain and telling myself that
Buterbaugh was wrong. I wasn’t demoralized back there at the sunken road: I hadn’t
even lost confidence. I was just plain scared, as scared as a man can be, and
that was why I walked away from the fight.
Just thinking it, I was panting like the dog. And soon as I
thought it—You were just plain scared, I thought—I wished I had let it alone.
Because being demoralized or losing confidence was all right. Like Buterbaugh
said, it was a thing that closed in on you from outside, a thing you couldn’t
help. But being scared was different. It was inside you, just you yourself, and
that was a horse of a different color. That meant I would have to do something
about it, or live with it for the balance of my life. So I went up the bluff.
I didn’t say anything to the others, and only the
Michigander looked up as I walked away. I thought maybe it would be a good idea
to take a poke at him before I left, but what was the use after all? Bango was
sleeping—anyhow he hadn’t moved. The rain was coming down harder now; when I
cleared the top of the bluff it came against me in sheets, driven by the wind,
and there was a steady moaning sound in the limbs of the trees. Then I saw
campfires. They followed a ridge and overlooked a gully, drawing a wide low
half-mile semicircle against the night. Siege guns, big ones long and black
against the firelight, were ranged along that ridge with their muzzles reaching
out toward the rebel lines. Later I heard that a colonel by the name of
Webster—he was on Grant's staff— had placed them there, and with the help of
some of the light artillery and rallied infantry, they formed the line that
broke the final charge that evening. But I didn’t know this now; I just saw the
siege guns against the campfires strung out along the ridge.
Then I passed a log house with lanterns burning and wounded
men lying half-naked on sawhorse tables, being held down by attendants while
the surgeons worked on them. The surgeons wore their sleeves rolled up, arms
bloody past the elbows; from time to time one would stop and take a pull at a
bottle. The wounded screamed like women, high and trembly ,
and the attendants had to hold them tight to keep them from bucking off the
tables.
I went past in a hurry, picking my way among those laid out
to wait their turn in the house. It was pitch black dark and the rain was
coming down harder, blowing up for a storm. Everywhere I went there were men on
the ground, singly or in groups, and most of them sleeping. But no matter who I
asked, not a one of them could tell me how to find my outfit.
"Where will I find the 1st Minnesota Battery?"
"Never heard of them." That was always the answer.
Once I saw a man huddled in a poncho, leaning back against
the trunk of a big oak. But when I went over to ask him, I saw his face and
backed away. He could have told me, maybe, but I didn’t ask him. It was General
Grant. He had that same worried look on his face, only more so. Earlier he'd
tried to get some sleep in the log house where I saw the surgeons, but the
screams of the wounded and the singing of the bone-saws drove him out into the
rain. Remembering all I saw when I went past—surgeons with their sleeves rolled
high and bloody arms and legs thrown in a pile outside an open window—I couldn’t
say I blamed him.
It went on that way: "Never heard of them," until
finally I gave up trying to locate the battery. I thought I'd better
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