“Julius Cæsar goes pretty slow,” said Désirée.
There was little débris in the road or by the wayside, no wrecked, left-behind wagons, little or no discarded accoutrement, few broken-down or dying horses, very few ill or wounded men, or mere footsore stragglers. Johnston’s movements were as clear-cut as so many cameos. He left no filings behind; he did not believe in blurred edges. He might place an army here to-day, and the morrow might find it a knight’s move or a bishop’s or a rook’s or a queen’s away; but always it went cleanly, bag and baggage, clean-lined, self-contained, with intention and poise. If his army was in retreat, the road behind him hardly bore witness to the fact.
Horse and wagon crept on toward Resaca. Morning wore to afternoon, very warm, very—“Nebuchadnezzar, what do you make of that dust before us? I make smoke as well as dust. And now I make firing! Listen!”
“Reckon better tuhn back—”
“No, no! Go on! When it is necessary to stop, we will stop until they let us by. It’s rear guard fighting probably—”
The cloud mounted. A few hundred yards and a bullet came and sheared away a leafy twig from the oak under which they were passing. It fell upon Désirée’s lap. A few yards farther, a second struck the dusty road in front of the horse. The confused sound down the road swelled into tumult.
“Gawd-er-moughty!” said Nebuchadnezzar. “Mus’ git out ob dis! Dey’re projeckin’ dishyer way!”
“Drive into the bank!” ordered Désirée. “No! there where it is wider! Don’t be afraid! Look how steady Julius Cæsar stands!”
“Yass, ’m. Think I’ll git out en hol’ him.—Lawd hab mercy, heah dey come!”
They came like a storm of the desert, two colours, one driving, one giving back, but in so great a cloud of road dust and carbine smoke, and in so rapid motion that which was which and whose were the shouts of triumph was not easy to tell. The horses’ hoofs made a thunder; all grew large, enveloped the earth, brought din and suffocation, roared by and were gone. There was a sense that the victorious colour was grey—but all was gone like a blast of the genii. The wagon had been nearly overturned. Some one had ridden violently against it—then there had sounded a shout, “’Ware! A woman!” and the wild course, pursued and pursuers, ever so slightly swerved. Désirée, thrown to her knees, laid hold of the wagon edge and waited, but not with closed eyes. A colour was in her cheek; she looked in this torrent as she had looked upon the levee, above the Mississippi in anger. The torrent passed, the rage of noise sank, the choking, blinding dust began to settle. Nebuchadnezzar came from the lee side of Julius Cæsar. He was ashen, whether with dust or with fear.