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Page 48
The men were disheartened and began to mutter. They made
gestures expressive of the sentence: "Ah, what more can we do?"
And it could always be seen that they were bewildered by the
alleged news and could not fully comprehend a defeat.
Before the gray mists had been totally obliterated by the sun
rays, the regiment was marching in a spread column that was
retiring carefully through the woods. The disordered, hurrying
lines of the enemy could sometimes be seen down through the groves
and little fields. They were yelling, shrill and exultant.
At this sight the youth forgot many personal matters and became
greatly enraged. He exploded in loud sentences. "B'jiminey,
we're generaled by a lot 'a lunkheads."
"More than one feller has said that t'-day," observed a man.
His friend, recently aroused, was still very drowsy. He looked
behind him until his mind took in the meaning of the movement.
Then he sighed. "Oh, well, I s'pose we got licked," he remarked sadly.
The youth had a thought that it would not be handsome for him to
freely condemn other men. He made an attempt to restrain himself,
but the words upon his tongue were too bitter. He presently began
a long and intricate denunciation of the commander of the forces.
"Mebbe, it wa'n't all his fault--not all together. He did th' best
he knowed. It's our luck t' git licked often," said his friend
in a weary tone. He was trudging along with stooped shoulders
and shifting eyes like a man who has been caned and kicked.
"Well, don't we fight like the devil? Don't we do all that men can?"
demanded the youth loudly.
He was secretly dumfounded at this sentiment when it came from
his lips. For a moment his face lost its valor and he looked
guiltily about him. But no one questioned his right to deal
in such words, and presently he recovered his air of courage.
He went on to repeat a statement he had heard going from group
to group at the camp that morning. "The brigadier said he never
saw a new reg'ment fight the way we fought yestirday, didn't he?
And we didn't do better than many another reg'ment, did we?
Well, then, you can't say it's th' army's fault, can you?"
In his reply, the friend's voice was stern. "'A course not,"
he said. "No man dare say we don't fight like th' devil.
No man will ever dare say it. Th' boys fight like hell-roosters.
But still--still, we don't have no luck."
"Well, then, if we fight like the devil an' don't ever whip, it
must be the general's fault," said the youth grandly and decisively.
"And I don't see any sense in fighting and fighting and fighting,
yet always losing through some derned old lunkhead of a general."
A sarcastic man who was tramping at the youth's side, then
spoke lazily. "Mebbe yeh think yeh fit th' hull battle yestirday,
Fleming," he remarked.
The speech pierced the youth. Inwardly he was reduced to an
abject pulp by these chance words. His legs quaked privately.
He cast a frightened glance at the sarcastic man.
"Why, no," he hastened to say in a conciliating voice
"I don't think I fought the whole battle yesterday."
But the other seemed innocent of any deeper meaning. Apparently,
he had no information. It was merely his habit. "Oh!" he replied
in the same tone of calm derision.
The youth, nevertheless, felt a threat. His mind shrank
from going near to the danger, and thereafter he was silent.
The significance of the sarcastic man's words took from
him all loud moods that would make him appear prominent.
He became suddenly a modest person.
There was low-toned talk among the troops. The officers were
impatient and snappy, their countenances clouded with the tales
of misfortune. The troops, sifting through the forest, were sullen.
In the youth's company once a man's laugh rang out. A dozen soldiers
turned their faces quickly toward him and frowned with vague displeasure.
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