The general spoke sharply. “Get ’em ready, then. I’ll watch developments from here, an’ send you word when t’ start them. It’ll happen in five minutes.”
As the other officer tossed his fingers toward his cap and wheeling his horse, started away, the general called out to him in a sober voice: “I don’t believe many of your mule drivers will get back.”
The other shouted something in reply. He smiled.
With scared faces, the youth and his companion hurried back to the line.
These happenings had occupied an incredibly short time, yet the youth felt that in them he had been made aged. New eyes were given to him. And the most startling thing was to learn suddenly that he was very insignificant. The officer spoke of the regiment as if he referred to a broom. Some part of the woods needed sweeping, perhaps, and he merely indicated a broom in a tone properly indifferent to its fate. It was war, no doubt, but it appeared strange.
As the two boys approached the line, the lieutenant perceived them and swelled with wrath. “Fleming—Wilson—how long does it take yeh to git water, anyhow—where yeh been to.”
But his oration ceased as he saw their eyes, which were large with great tales. “We’re goin’ t’ charge—we’re goin’ t’ charge!” cried the youth’s friend, hastening with his news.
“Charge?” said the lieutenant. “Charge? Well, b’Gawd! Now, this is real fightin’.” Over his soiled countenance there went a boastful smile. “Charge? Well, b’Gawd!”
A little group of soldiers surrounded the two youths. “Are we, sure ’nough? Well, I’ll be derned! Charge? What fer? What at? Wilson, you’re lyin’.”
“I hope to die,” said the youth, pitching his tones to the key of angry remonstrance. “Sure as shooting, I tell you.”