Crittenden

And not all of them passed high. After that sweep of glistening steel

rain along the edge of the woods rose the cry here, there, everywhere: "Hospital man! hospital man!"

And here and there, in the steady pelt of bullets, went the quiet, brave

fellows with red crosses on their sleeves; across the creek, Crittenden

could see a tall, young doctor, bare-headed in the sun, stretching out

limp figures on the sand under the bank--could see him and his

assistants stripping off blouse and trousers and shirt, and wrapping and

binding, and newly wounded being ever brought in.

And behind forged soldiers forward, a tall aide at the ford urging them

across and stopping a panic among volunteers.

"Come back, you cowards--come back! Push 'em back, boys!"

A horse was crossing the stream. There was a hissing shriek in the air,

a geyser spouting from the creek, the remnants of a horse thrown upward,

and five men tossed in a swirl like straw: and, a moment later, a boy

feebly paddling towards the shore--while the water ran past him red with

blood. And, through it all, looking backward, Crittenden saw little

Carter coming on horseback, calm of face, calm of manner, with his hands

folded over his saddle, and his eyes looking upward--little Carter who

had started out in an ambulance that morning with a temperature of one

hundred and four, and, meeting wounded soldiers, gave up his wagon to

them, mounted his horse, and rode into battle--to come out normal at

dusk. And behind him--erect, proud, face aflame, eyes burning, but

hardly less cool--rode Basil. Crittenden's eyes filled with love and

pride for the boy.

"God bless him--God save him!"

* * * * *

A lull came--one of the curious lulls that come periodically in battle

for the reason that after any violent effort men must have a breathing

spell--and the mist of bullets swept on to the right like a swift

passing shower of rain.

There was a splash in the creek behind Crittenden, and someone fell on

his face behind the low bank with a fervent: "Thank God, I've got this far!" It was Grafton.

"That nigger of yours is coming on somewhere back there," he added, and

presently he rose and calmly peered over the bank and at the line of

yellow dirt on the crest of the hill. A bullet spat in the ground close

by.

"That hit you?" he asked, without altering the tone of his

voice--without even lowering his glasses.

Reynolds, on his right, had ducked quickly. Crittenden looked up in

surprise. The South had no monopoly of nerve--nor, in that campaign, the

soldier.