“Yanks up ahead—they’s Yanks up ahead!” “Quiet you! I asked him—he didnt say there were Yanks ahead.” “Hay! Damyanks up above. Goin to mow us down!”
“Fella says the bluebellies are layin fur us!”
Had the lie been in my mind, to be telepathically plucked by the excited soldiers? Was even silence no refuge from participation?
“Man here spotted the whole Fed artillery up above, trained on us!”
“Pull back, boys! Pull back!”
I’d read often enough of the epidemic quality of a perfectly unreasonable notion. A misunderstood word, a baseless rumor, an impossible report, was often enough to set a group of armed men—squad or army—into senseless mob action. Sometimes the infection made for feats of heroism, sometimes for panic. This was certainly less than panic, but my nervous, meaningless smile conveyed a message I had never sent.
“It’s a trap. Pull back boys—let’s get away from these trees and out where we can see the Yanks!” The captain whirled on his men. “Here, damn you,” he shouted furiously, “you all gone crazy? The man said nothing. There’s no trap!”
The men moved slowly, sullenly away. “I heard him,” one of them muttered, looking accusingly toward me.
The captain’s shout became a yell. “Come back here! Back here, I say!”
His raging stride overtook the still irresolute men. He grabbed the one called Jenks by the shoulder and whirled him about. Jenks tried to jerk free. There was fear on his face, and hate. “Leave me go, damn you,” he screamed, “Leave me go!”