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Page 57
The youth ran like a madman to reach the woods before a bullet
could discover him. He ducked his head low, like a football player.
In his haste his eyes almost closed, and the scene was a wild blur.
Pulsating saliva stood at the corners of his mouth.
Within him, as he hurled himself forward, was born a love, a
despairing fondness for this flag which was near him. It was
a creation of beauty and invulnerability. It was a goddess,
radiant, that bended its form with an imperious gesture to him.
It was a woman, red and white, hating and loving, that called
him with the voice of his hopes. Because no harm could come to
it he endowed it with power. He kept near, as if it could be a
saver of lives, and an imploring cry went from his mind.
In the mad scramble he was aware that the color sergeant
flinched suddenly, as if struck by a bludgeon. He faltered,
and then became motionless, save for his quivering knees.
He made a spring and a clutch at the pole. At the same instant
his friend grabbed it from the other side. They jerked at it,
stout and furious, but the color sergeant was dead, and the
corpse would not relinquish its trust. For a moment there was
a grim encounter. The dead man, swinging with bended back,
seemed to be obstinately tugging, in ludicrous and awful ways,
for the possession of the flag.
It was past in an instant of time. They wrenched the flag
furiously from the dead man, and, as they turned again,
the corpse swayed forward with bowed head. One arm swung high,
and the curved hand fell with heavy protest on the friend's
unheeding shoulder.
Chapter 20
When the two youths turned with the flag they saw that much of
the regiment had crumbled away, and the dejected remnant was
coming slowly back. The men, having hurled themselves in
projectile fashion, had presently expended their forces.
They slowly retreated, with their faces still toward the
spluttering woods, and their hot rifles still replying to the din.
Several officers were giving orders, their voices keyed to screams.
"Where in hell yeh goin'?" the lieutenant was asking in a
sarcastic howl. And a red-bearded officer, whose voice of
triple brass could plainly be heard, was commanding: "Shoot into 'em!
Shoot into 'em, Gawd damn their souls!" There was a melee of screeches,
in which the men were ordered to do conflicting and impossible things.
The youth and his friend had a small scuffle over the flag.
"Give it t' me!" "No, let me keep it!" Each felt satisfied with
the other's possession of it, but each felt bound to declare,
by an offer to carry the emblem, his willingness to further
risk himself. The youth roughly pushed his friend away.
The regiment fell back to the stolid trees. There it halted for
a moment to blaze at some dark forms that had begun to steal upon
its track. Presently it resumed its march again, curving among
the tree trunks. By the time the depleted regiment had again
reached the first open space they were receiving a fast and
merciless fire. There seemed to be mobs all about them.
The greater part of the men, discouraged, their spirits worn by
the turmoil, acted as if stunned. They accepted the pelting of
the bullets with bowed and weary heads. It was of no purpose to
strive against walls. It was of no use to batter themselves
against granite. And from this consciousness that they had
attempted to conquer an unconquerable thing there seemed to arise
a feeling that they had been betrayed. They glowered with bent brows,
but dangerously, upon some of the officers, more particularly
upon the red-bearded one with the voice of triple brass.
However, the rear of the regiment was fringed with men, who
continued to shoot irritably at the advancing foes. They seemed
resolved to make every trouble. The youthful lieutenant was
perhaps the last man in the disordered mass. His forgotten back
was toward the enemy. He had been shot in the arm. It hung
straight and rigid. Occasionally he would cease to remember it,
and be about to emphasize an oath with a sweeping gesture.
The multiplied pain caused him to swear with incredible power.
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