The troops topped the ridge and vanished under the white, thick blanket of smoke. As if fresh fuel had been added to a great flame, the smoke thickened, the cannonading grew heavier, the crack! crack! of musketry more incessant.
Emmeline stood with her arms clasped round the pillar of the porch. With each great detonation she grasped the pillar more tightly, as if she feared that the waves of sound might wash her away. Sometimes she closed her eyes and drew in deep breaths of air. Between her gasps of fright she stared, awed and fascinated. She saw the last troops cross the hill and the smoke clouds thicken. Presently she saw black missiles hurtle through the air and bright flashes from beyond the hill divide the low-lying cloud. Suddenly she screamed. A dark object, passing over the ridge with a shrill, whistling sound, had plunged into Grandfather Willing's potato patch. Private Christy took Emmeline by the arm and led her round the corner of the house.
"Nothing but a stray shot, sissy; but if I was you, I believe I'd stay here. Nothing can hurt you through these stone walls."
He led her to a seat on the grass close to the west wall of the house. There she sat dazed. Sometimes she blinked; sometimes she smoothed absently the wrinkled, soiled fabric of her blue and white dress; otherwise she did not move. She could not think or reason; she could only listen.
Private Christy went back to his seat on the porch. Presently he returned and smiled at Emmeline, and then went into the house. There in the hot kitchen, working slowly with his single hand, he made a fresh fire, and set upon the stove Grandmother Willing's washboiler and filled it with water. Then he went upstairs and looked round. Emmeline vaguely wondered again what his business was as a member of the army. Thus far he had done nothing.
Still Emmeline sat on the grassy bank by the house. Before her was the sloping field leading to Willoughby Run. Down that field she had often raced. Under the trees by the side of the stream horses were tethered, and near by were hundreds of wagons. The sun was getting low.
Emmeline rose stiffly. It seemed to her that the roar of cannon had grown a little less thunderous. She would go round the house and out to Private Christy. Private Christy, although an enemy, was comforting. As night drew near, her longing for home grew keener, but she had begun to realize that she could not return now.
Emmeline did not find Private Christy on the porch; he was apparently running away from her. She saw his long legs carrying him up the slope; presently he broke into a run. He was not going into the battle; he was meeting those who were returning. That is, he was meeting a few—those who, although wounded, could still drag themselves along. They had left behind them thousands of their comrades, who could not join even such a halting, pitiful procession as theirs. Hundreds who had started with the procession had fallen by the way.
In the forefront of the straggling line was Private Mallon, who had carried Emmeline up to bed. His arm hung limp and his hair was clotted with blood; he fell heavily against Private Christy as they met.
Again Emmeline's arm encircled the porch pillar. In some dim, long-past existence Emmeline had dreamed of binding wounds, of smoothing fevered brows, of lifting her voice in song for the comfort of the suffering! Now Emmeline wished that the earth would open and swallow her.