“Now, God be praised!” said I, running to seize Theso’s hand. “God Almighty be praised! This is grand news indeed.”
“I came to tell you,” said he, “that you need stay no longer here. We don’t think of entrenchments now.”
“Then I may ride to the field, where I can better understand all you have been doing.”
So saying I mounted my horse, Theso giving some directions as to the right track, and away I cantered.
This might have been a scene harrowing to the last degree, for I might have found it full of suffering I had no power to mitigate, and have paid dearly in agony of mind for the gratification of a natural and overwhelming curiosity. But the noble compassion and prompt activity of the victors, aided by our generous sailors, had already removed from the field, without distinction of friend or foe, all who stood in need of the offices of humanity.
Still it was a field of battle smoking with recent carnage, peopled with prostrate warriors distorted with the death agony, harnessed for battle in gay colours, feathers, and gold, but stained and bathed in their own life-blood, having on that gory bed suddenly closed all the sanguine, joyous hopes of life.
A sight so disfigured, what heart of rock could long dry-eyed behold!
The events of the battle were in some sort told by the mute and motionless, but sad and appalling forms with which the ground was covered; all indeed were still and silent, but all bore the attitude of struggle, of fearful flight, or eager chase.
A picture of a battle represents but one instant; no figure can move, yet all seems stirring and tumultuous.
So, in some sort, is the actual field of glory. The chieftain’s hand is lifted to strike; his lips have not closed since the shout of victory or mandate of battle has passed through them. The passions, too, in the midst of death remain strongly impressed upon each warrior’s features. The daring courage, the bitterness of anger or revenge, and the thrilling agony of mortal pain—all speak distinctly in the countenance of the dead.