Steve drew himself well behind a great straw stack, splitting the advance like a spongy Gibraltar. Here he found a more or less like-minded private from one of the Georgia regiments. This one had quite deeply burrowed, and Steve, noting the completeness of his retirement, tore out for himself a like cavern in the straw. Outside was shouting and confusion and smoke; in here was space at least in which to have a vision of the clear security of Thunder Run Mountain. “You wounded, too?” proffered from behind a straw partition his fellow retirer.
“Yaas,” answered Steve. “In the foot.”
“I got hurt in the hip,” said the other. “It’s an old strain, and sometimes, when we’re double-quicking, I’m liable to give out. The boys all know about it and make allowance. They all know I fight like the devil up to that point.”
“Same here,” said Steve. “I fight like a tiger, but now ’n’ then comes along a time when a man’s under a moral necessity not to. When your foot gives under you you can’t go on charging—not if Napoleon Cæsar himself was there shoutin’ about duty!”
“Them’s my sentiments,” said the other. “We’re going to win this battle. I see it the way we looked going in. How do you feel about going on to Washington?”
“I’ve had my doubts,” said Steve. “How do you feel?”
“It’s powerful rich and full of things to eat and drink and wear. But there’d be awful fighting getting in.”
“That’s the way I feel,” said Steve. “Awful fightin’ ’n’ I don’t—”
An officer’s sword invaded their dwelling-place. “Get out of here! What are you doing hiding here? Tie you in this rick and set fire to it, you damned skulkers! Get out and march ahead!” The flat of the sword descended vigorously.
Steve yelped and rubbed. “Gawd, Captain! don’t do that! I got a hurt foot—”