As we approached the bridge, there was confusion and altercation ahead. The people were borne back upon me. Curses and threats ensued.
"It is the Provost-guard," said a fugitive, "driving back the boys."
"Go back!" called a voice ahead. "I'll blow you to h—ll, if you don't go back! Not a man shall cross the bridge without orders!"
The stragglers were variously affected by this intelligence. Some cursed and threatened; some of the wounded blubbered as they leaned languidly upon the shoulders of their comrades. Others stoically threw themselves on the ground and tried to sleep. One man called aloud that the "boys" were stronger than the Provosts, and that, therefore, the "boys" ought to "go in and win."
"Where's the man that wants to mutiny?" said the voice ahead; "let me see him!"
The man slipped away; for the Provost officer spoke as though he meant all he said.
"Nobody wants to mutiny!" called others.
"Three cheers for the Union."
The wounded and well threw up their hats together, and made a sickly hurrah. The grim officer relented, and he shouted stentoriously that he would take the responsibility of passing the wounded. These gathered themselves up and pushed through the throng; but many skulkers plead injuries, and so escaped. When I attempted to follow, on horseback, hands were laid upon me and I was refused exit. In that hour of terror and sadness, there were yet jests and loud laughter. However keenly I felt these things, I had learned that modesty amounted to little in the army; so I pushed my nag steadily forward and scattered the camp vernacular, in the shape of imprecations, left and right.
"Colonel," I called to the officer in command, as the line of bayonets edged me in, "may I pass out? I am a civilian!"