The town itself was hardly in danger during this riverside bombardment, unless, indeed, from some accident of defective marksmanship. But with all the world gone mad, the atmosphere itself a field of pyrotechnic magnificence, the familiar old mountains but a background to display the curves a flying shell might describe, now and again bursting in mid-air ere it reached its billet, the non-combatant populace was panic-stricken. Streets were deserted. All ordinary vocations ceased. The more substantial buildings of brick or stone were crowded, their walls presumed to be capable of resisting at least the spent balls, wide of aim, for these were often endowed with such a residue of energy as still to be destructive. Cellars were in request, and while the darkness precluded the terrifying glare of the bursting projectiles, nevertheless the tremendous clamor of the detonation, the wild reverberations of the echoes, the shouts of cheering men, the sound of bugles and drums and of voices in command in the distance, gave intimations of what was going forward, and uncertainty perhaps enhanced fear.
"Dar, now, de Yankee man's battery is done gone too!" exclaimed Uncle Ephraim, as the voice of authority rang out sharply, with all its echo-like variants in the subalterns' commands. The clangor of accoutrements, the heavy but swift roll of the wheels of gun-carriages and caissons, the tumultuous hoof-beats of horses at full gallop, the spirited cheering of the artillerymen, filled the air—and then silence ensued, deep and dark, the stone walls of the cellar vaguely glimmering with one candle set on the head of a barrel.
"He's gone wid 'em,—dat man! Time dat bugle blow he tore dat bandage off his haid—nicked or no,—dat he did!"
Uncle Ephraim was seated on an inverted cotton basket, and Aunt Chaney, with the three "ladies" clustered about her knees, sat on the flight of steps that led down from a cautiously closed door. The "ladies" kept their fingers in their ears as a protection against sound, but the deaf-mute, strangely enough, was the most acute to discern the crash, possibly by reason of the vibrations of the air, since she could not hear the detonation of the shells.
Somehow the sturdy courage of that soldierly shout was reassuring.
"Dere ain't no danger, ladies," declared Aunt Chaney. Then, "Oh, my King!" she cried in an altered voice, while the three "ladies" hid their faces in the folds of her apron as a terrific explosion took place in mid-air, the pieces of the shell falling burning in the grove.
"Jus' lissen at dat owdacious Julius!" muttered Uncle Ephraim, indignantly. "I never 'lowed he war gwine ter kick up sech a tarrifyin' commotion as dis yere, nohow."
"I wish Gran'pa would come down here," whined one of the twins.
"Where the cannon-balls can't catch him," whimpered the other.
"What you talking about, ladies?" demanded the old cook, rising to the occasion. "You 'spec' a gemman lak yer gran'pa gwine sit in de cellar, lak—lak a 'tater!"—the simile suggested by a bushel-basket half full of Irish potatoes for late planting in the "garden spot."