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Software Vault: The Gold Collection
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1993-06-14
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The youth went slowly toward the fire indicated by his
departed friend. As he reeled, he bethought him of the welcome his
comrades would give him. He had a conviction that he would soon
feel in his sore heart the barbed missiles of ridicule. He had no
strength to invent a tale; he would be a soft target.
He made vague plans to go off into the deeper darkness and
hide, but they were all destroyed by the voices of exhaustion and
pain from his body. His ailments, clamoring, forced him to seek the
place of food and rest, at whatever cost.
He swung unsteadily toward the fire. He could see the forms of
men throwing black shadows in the red light, and as he went nearer
it became known to him in some way that the ground was strewn with
sleeping men.
Of a sudden he confronted a black and monstrous figure. A
rifle barrel caught some glinting beams. "Halt! halt!" He was
dismayed for a moment, but he presently thought that he recognized
the nervous voice. As he stood tottering before the rifle barrel,
he called out: "Why, hello, Wilson, you---you here?"
The rifle was lowered to a position of caution and the loud
soldier came slowly forward. He peered into the youth's face. "That
you, Henry?"
"Yes it's---it's me. "
"Well, well, old boy," said the other, "by ginger, I'm glad to
see you! I give you up for a goner. I thought you was dead sure
enough." There was husky emotion in his voice.
The youth found that now he could barely stand upon his feet.
There was a sudden sinking of his forces. He thought he must hasten
to produce his tale to protect him from the missiles already at the
lips of his redoubtable comrades. So, staggering before the loud
soldier, he began: "Yes, yes. I've---I've had an awful time. I've
been all over. Way over on the right. Terrible fighting over there.
I had an awful time. I got separated from the regiment. Over on the
right, I got shot. In the head. I never see such fighting. Awful
time. I don't see how I could have got separated from the regiment.
I got shot, too."
His friend had stepped forward quickly. "What? Got shot? Why
didn't you say so first? Poor old boy, we must---hold on a minute;
what am I doing? I'll call Simpson."
Another figure at that moment loomed in the gloom. They could
see that it was the corporal. "Who you talking to, Wilson?" he
demanded. His voice was anger-toned. "Who you talking to? You the
darndest sentinel---why---hello, Henry, you here? Why, I thought
you was dead four hours ago! Great Jerusalem, they keep turning up
every ten minutes or so! We thought we'd lost forty-two men by
straight count, but if they keep on a-coming this way, we'll get
the company all back by morning yet. Where was you?"
"Over on the right. I got separated"---began the youth with
considerable glibness.
But his friend had interrupted hastily. "Yes, and he got shot
in the head and he's in a fix, and we must see to him right away."
He rested his rifle in the hollow of his left arm and his right
around the youth's shoulder.
"Gee, it must hurt like thunder!" he said.
The youth leaned heavily upon his friend. "Yes, it hurts---
hurts a good deal," he replied. There was a faltering in his voice.
"Oh," said the corporal. He linked his arm in the youth's and
drew him forward. "Come on, Henry. I'll take care of you."
As they went on together the loud private called out after
them: "Put him to sleep in my blanket, Simpson. And---hold on a
minute---here's my canteen. It's full of coffee. Look at his head
by the fire and see how it looks. Maybe it's a pretty bad one.
When I get relieved in a couple of minutes, I'll be over and see to
him."
The youth's senses were so deadened that his friend's voice
sounded from afar and he could scarcely feel the pressure of the
corporal's arm. He submitted passively to the latter's directing
strength. His head was in the old manner hanging forward upon his
breast. His knees wobbled.
The corporal led him into the glare of the fire. "Now, Henry,"
he said, "let's have look at your old head."
The youth sat down obediently and the corporal, laying aside
his rifle, began to fumble in the bushy hair of his comrade. He was
obliged to turn the other's head so that the full flush of the fire
light would beam upon it. He puckered his mouth with a critical
air. He drew back his lips and whistled through his teeth when his
fingers came in contact with the splashed blood and the rare wound.
"Ah, here we are!" he said. He awkwardly made further
investigations. "Just as I thought," he added, presently. "You've
been grazed by a ball. It's raised a queer lump just as if some
fellow had lammed you on the head with a club. It stopped a-
bleeding long time ago. The most about it is that in the morning
you'll feel that a number ten hat wouldn't fit you. And your head
will be all hot up and feel as dry as burnt pork. And you may get
a lot of other sicknesses, too, by morning. You can't never tell.
Still, I don't much think so. It's just a damned good belt on the
head, and nothing more. Now, you just sit here and don't move,
while I go rout out the relief. Then I'll send Wilson to take care
of you."
The corporal went away. The youth remained on the ground like
a parcel. He stared with a vacant look into the fire.
After a time he aroused, for some part, and the things about
him began to take form. He saw that the ground in the deep shadows
was cluttered with men, sprawling in every conceivable posture.
Glancing narrowly into the more distant darkness, he caught
occasional glimpses of visages that loomed pallid and ghostly, lit
with a phosphorescent glow. These faces expressed in their lines
the deep stupor of the tired soldiers. They made them appear like
men drunk with wine. This bit of forest might have appeared to an
ethereal wanderer as a scene of the result of some frightful
debauch.
On the other side of the fire the youth observed an officer
asleep, seated bolt upright, with his back against a tree. There
was something perilous in his position. Badgered by dreams,
perhaps, he swayed with little bounces and starts, like an old,
toddy-stricken grandfather in a chimney corner. Dust and stains
were upon his face. His lower jaw hung down as if lacking strength
to assume its normal position. He was the picture of an exhausted
soldier after a feast of war.
He had evidently gone to sleep with his sword in his arms.
These two had slumbered in an embrace, but the weapon had been
allowed in time to fall unheeded to the ground. The brass-mounted
hilt lay in contact with some parts of the fire.
Within the gleam of rose and orange light from the burning
sticks were other soldiers, snoring and heaving, or lying
death-like in slumber. A few pairs of legs were stuck forth, rigid
and straight. The shoes displayed the mud or dust of marches and
bits of rounded trousers, protruding from the blankets, showed
rents and tears from hurried pitchings through the dense brambles.
The fire crackled musically. From it swelled light smoke.
Overhead the foliage moved softly. The leaves, with their faces
turned toward the blaze, were colored shifting hues of silver,
often edged with red. Far off to the right, through a window in the
forest, could be seen a handful of stars lying, like glittering
pebbles, on the black level of the night.
Occasionally, in this low-arched hall, a soldier would arouse
and turn his body to a new position, the experience of his sleep
having taught him of uneven and objectionable places upon the
ground under him. Or, perhaps, he would lift himself to a sitting
posture, blink at the fire for an unintelligent moment, throw a
swift glance at his prostrate companion, and then cuddle down again
with a grunt of sleepy content.
The youth sat in a forlorn heap until his friend, the loud
young soldier, came, swinging two canteens by their light strings.
"Well, now, Henry, old boy," said the latter, "we'll have you fixed
up in just about a minute."
He had the bustling ways of an amateur nurse. He fussed around
the fire and stirred the sticks to brilliant exertions. He made his
patient drink largely from the canteen that contained the coffee.
It was to the youth a delicious draught. He tilted his head afar
back and held the canteen long to his lips. The cool mixture went
caressingly down his blistered throat. Having finished he sighed
with comfortable delight.
The loud young soldier watched his comrade with an air of
satisfaction. He later produced an extensive handkerchief from his
pocket. He folded it into a manner of bandage and soused water from
the other canteen upon the middle of it. This crude arrangement he
bound over the youth's head, tying the ends in a queer knot at the
back of the neck.
"There," he said, moving off and surveying his deed, "You look
like the devil, but I bet you feel better. "
The youth contemplated his friend with grateful eyes. Upon his
aching and swelling head the cold cloth was like a tender woman's
hand.
"You don't holler nor say nothing," remarked his friend
approvingly. "I know I'm a blacksmith at taking care of sick folks,
and you never squeaked. Your a good one, Henry. Most men would have
been in the hospital long ago. A shot in the head ain't fooling
business."
The youth made no reply, but began to fumble with the buttons
of his jacket.
"Well, come, now," continued his friend, "come on. I must put
you to bed and see that you get a good night's rest."
The other got carefully erect, and the loud young soldier led
him among the sleeping forms lying in groups and rows. Presently he
stooped and picked up his blankets. He spread the rubber one upon
the ground and placed the woolen one about the youth's shoulders.
"There now," he said, "lie down and get some sleep."
The youth, with his manner of dog-like obedience, got
carefully down like a crone stooping. He stretched out with a
murmur of relief and comfort. The ground felt like the softest
couch.
But of a sudden he ejaculated: "Hold on a minute! Where you
going to sleep?"
His friend waved his hand impatiently. "Right down there by
you."
"Well, but hold on a minute," continued the youth. "What you
going to sleep in? I've got your---"
The loud young soldier snarled: "Shut up and go on to sleep.
Don't be making a damned fool of yourself," he said severely.
After the reproof the youth said no more. An exquisite
drowsiness had spread through him. The warm comfort of the blanket
enveloped him and made a gentle languor. His head fell forward on
his crooked arm and his weighted lids went slowly down over his
eyes. Hearing a splatter of musketry from the distance, he wondered
indifferently if those men sometimes slept. He gave a long sigh,
snuggled down into his blanket, and in a moment was like his
comrades.