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.