"Perhaps you would go to see them sometime, when the war is over."
It was amazing to hear how many had daughters or little sisters like Emmeline. As she listened to one after the other, and tried to fix their requests in her mind, her dark eyes grew wider and her face paler. Still the two hundred cannon roared. That sound unnerved even the hardened soldier and the general trained by long experience in battles, who began to ask themselves whether human spirit could endure more. The like of that sound the world had till then never heard.
In mid-afternoon came peace. As suddenly as it had begun, it seemed to Emmeline, the thunder stopped. Emmeline burst into tears, and then, not knowing that she had cried, went on with her work.
"It is over," Emmeline assured herself. "Now it is certainly over."
But Emmeline knew nothing of the tactics of war. There were still those thousands of infantry who had marched over the hill and who had as yet given no account of themselves. Where were they? They still had work to do. A few minutes they waited, until the last echo had died away, and then, in magnificent array, they marched forward across the fields to the opposite ridge, marched straight in the face of the enemy's cannon, which they supposed had run short of ammunition. Of those brave thousands, few returned whole across the wide fields; many did not return at all. Emmeline, watching them in the morning, had thought them wonderful; but Emmeline could not judge how glorious they were. Now they would march no more. If Emmeline had listened, she could have heard, borne upon the wind, rapturous shouts from that opposite ridge; but she heard only the broken words and gasps of the men about her. Private Christy heard with haggard, white face; the generals heard—those who survived. The greatest general of all, whom Emmeline had watched upon his white horse, listened with a breaking heart.
Gradually the clouds of smoke lifted, gradually the odor of smoke was carried away. The sun set in a stormy sky, and once more the air cooled. The battle was over; upon the wide field peace descended, but it was the peace of death and woe. From Round Top to Gettysburg and far beyond lay strewn those who a few hours before had moved in strength and pride.
Gettysburg, hearing the result of the battle, breathed a long sigh of great relief. Citizens appeared from the places where they had taken shelter; women and children came out upon the streets again, and stared at house walls torn by shells and at barricades thrown across streets. At Emmeline Willing's house men and women and children gazed in awe. The house had been strangely protected; it stood among its fellows unharmed. There, to Emmeline's Sister Bertha, had been sent a little child. There Bertha herself lay sleeping in the bed to which she had been restored. One by one men and women and children tiptoed into the kitchen to behold with their own eyes the little baby lying in his cradle.
Mrs. Willing moved quietly about her house and attended to her charges. All the cruelty and horror of war weighed upon Mrs. Willing. No word had come from her boy. And where was Emmeline, her darling, her little girl, whom she had un-wittingly sent into greater danger? Where were the elder Willings?
Meanwhile Emmeline worked on. She had ceased to be partisan; she asked no question either about victory or defeat. As night advanced, a great uneasiness seemed to spread. Troops were moved, trees were felled, and new breastworks erected. Emmeline's room was occupied now; a young officer lay upon the bed, and less important patients upon the floor. With his single arm, Private Christy continued to accomplish wonders.
"You are my other arm, Emmyline," he said in his drawling voice. "You mustn't forget me, Emmyline."