"'We drove 'em like sheep through the town! We have thousands of prisoners! To-morrow we'll settle them!'"
So that was why no Northern troops had come to her rescue and the rescue of her grandfather's house!
Emmeline ceased to cry; alarm and terror dried her tears. She thought of her mother and of Bertha. She recalled the deep earnestness of her mother's eyes.
Had there been fighting in quiet, peaceful Gettysburg? Emmeline had picked lint for padding, had wound muslin strips for bandaging, and had seen Gettysburg soldiers who had returned with a leg or an arm missing; but of actual battle Emmeline had no clear idea. She had thought of bugle blasts, of banners flying, of loud, inspiring commands; beyond that her imagination had failed. Now for the first time it became clear to her that actual danger of death threatened those whom she loved.
Where was her mother? Had Bertha been taken into the cellar as the soldier advised? Vague recollections of the details of Bertha's illness came to her, scraps of conversation between her mother and Bertha that she had heard as she passed the door of the sick room. A vague, half-formed suspicion flashed into her mind. At this moment Emmeline began suddenly to grow up. But the first speech of her adult life was childish.
"I must go home!" she cried, as she sprang from her chair.
She ran down the steps and out to the porch. Dankness had come; soldiers lay about on the grass, and the murmur of their voices spread in all directions. The moon was rising; in its first oblique rays all things looked queer and distorted.
There were many sounds: the click of pickaxes against stones, the crash of trees that were being felled, the hoarse shouts of officers giving orders. Emmeline rushed to the side of the tall soldier, who was sitting on the steps.
"I must go home!" she declared again. "I must go home!"
"Now you're just frightened," the tall soldier said. "There ain't no reason for you to be skeered. No harm'll come to you. We ain't wild beasts, sissy."