His calm was of short duration. There was a rushing sound, something struck violently, and a tremendous explosion followed. Fire flashed before Dick's eyes, pieces of red hot metal whistled past his head, earth spattered him and he was thrown to the ground.
He sprang up again, understanding all instantly. A shell from his own army had burst near him, and he had been thrown down by the concussion. But he had not been hurt, and in a few seconds his pulse beat steadily.
He heard a shout of laughter as he stood, brushing the fresh dirt from his clothing. He glanced up in some anger, but he saw at once that the arrival of the shell had been most fortunate for his plan. To come near annihilation by a Federal gun certainly invested him with a Confederate character.
It was a group of young soldiers who were laughing and their amusement was entirely good-natured. They would have laughed the same way had the harmless adventure befallen one of their own number. Dick judged that they were from the Southwest.
“Close call,” he said, smiling that attractive smile, which was visible even in the twilight.
“It was a friendly shell,” said one of the youths, “and it concluded not to come too close to you. These Yankee shells are so loving that sometimes they spray themselves in little pieces all over a fellow, like a shower of rice over a bride at a wedding.”
“How long do you think the Yankees will keep it up?” asked Dick, putting indignation in his tone. “Haven't they any respect for the night?”
“Not a bit. That fellow Grant is a pounder. They say he'll blow away the whole plateau of Vicksburg if we don't drive him off.”
“Well, we'll do it. You wait till old Joe Johnston comes up. Then we'll shut him between the jaws of a vise and squeeze the life out of him.”
“Hope so. Where've you been?”