The Metropolis | Page 4

Colonel read, still in his calm, matter-of-fact voice, you
might see men leaning forward in their chairs, hands clenched, teeth set.
They knew! They knew! Had there ever before been a time in history
when breastworks had been charged by artillery? Twenty-four men in
the crew of one gun, and only two unhurt! One iron sponge-bucket with
thirty-nine bullet holes shot through it! And then blasts of canister
sweeping the trenches, and blowing scores of living and dead men to
fragments! And into this hell of slaughter new regiments charging, in
lines four deep! And squad after squad of the enemy striving to
surrender, and shot to pieces by their own comrades as they clambered
over the blood-soaked walls! And heavy timbers in the defences shot to

splinters! Huge oak trees--one of them twenty-four inches in
diameter--crashing down upon the combatants, gnawed through by
rifle-bullets! Since the world began had men ever fought like that?
Then the Colonel told of his own wound in the shoulder, and how,
toward dusk, he had crawled away; and how he became lost, and
strayed into the enemy's line, and was thrust into a batch of prisoners
and marched to the rear. And then of the night that he spent beside a
hospital camp in the Wilderness, where hundreds of wounded and
dying men lay about on the rain-soaked ground, moaning, screaming,
praying to be killed. Again the prisoners were moved, having been
ordered to march to the railroad; and on the way the Colonel went blind
from suffering and exhaustion, and staggered and fell in the road. You
could have heard a pin drop in the room, in the pause between
sentences in his story, as he told how the guard argued with him to
persuade him to go on. It was their duty to kill him if he refused, but
they could not bring themselves to do it. In the end they left the job to
one, and he stood and cursed the officer, trying to get up his courage;
and finally fired his gun into the air, and went off and left him.
Then he told how an old negro had found him, and how he lay delirious;
and how, at last, the army marched his way. He ended his narrative the
simple sentence: "It was not until the siege of Petersburg that I was able
to rejoin my Command."
There was a murmur of applause; and then silence. Suddenly, from
somewhere in the room, came the sound of singing--"Mine eyes have
seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!" The old battle-hymn seemed
to strike the very mood of the meeting; the whole throng took it up, and
they sang it, stanza by stanza. It was rolling forth like a mighty
organ-chant as they came to the fervid closing:--
"He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is
sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; Oh! be swift, my
soul, to answer Him; be jubilant, my feet,--Our God is marching on!"
There was a pause again; and the presiding officer rose and said that,
owing to the presence of a distinguished guest, they would forego one
of their rules, and invite Judge Ellis to say a few words. The Judge
came forward, and bowed his acknowledgment of their welcome. Then,
perhaps feeling a need of relief after the sombre recital, the Judge took
occasion to apologize for his own temerity in addressing a roomful of

warriors; and somehow he managed to make that remind him of a story
of an army mule, a very amusing story; and that reminded him of
another story, until, when he stopped and sat down, every one in the
room broke into delighted applause.
They went in to dinner. Montague sat by General Prentice, and he, in
turn, by the Judge; the latter was reminded of more stories during the
dinner, and kept every one near him laughing. Finally Montague was
moved to tell a story himself--about an old negro down home, who
passed himself off for an Indian. The Judge was so good as to consider
this an immensely funny story, and asked permission to tell it himself.
Several times after that he leaned over and spoke to Montague, who felt
a slight twinge of guilt as he recalled his brother's cynical advice,
"Cultivate him!" The Judge was so willing to be cultivated, however,
that it gave one's conscience little chance.
They went back to the meeting-room again; chairs were shifted, and
little groups formed, and cigars and pipes brought out. They moved the
precious battle-flags forward, and some one produced a bugle and a
couple of drums; then the walls of the place shook, as the whole
company burst forth:--
"Bring the good old bugle, boys! we'll