The Tree of Appomattox | Page 9

the far side and sever the Southern line. But Colonel Winchester
did not yet give the word to his own regiment, and Dick knew that they
were to be held in reserve.
Into the great chasm went white troops and black troops, charging
together, and then Dick suddenly cried in horror. Those were veterans
on the other side, and, recovering quickly from the surprise, they
rushed forward their batteries and riflemen. Mahone, a little, alert man,
commanded them, and in an instant they deluged the pit, afterward
famous under the name of "The Crater," with fire. The steep slope held
back the Union troops and from the edges everywhere the men in gray
poured a storm of shrapnel and canister and bullets into the packed
masses.
Colonel Winchester groaned aloud, and looked at his men who were
eager to advance to the rescue, but it was evident to Dick that his orders

held him, and they stood in silence gazing at the appalling scene in the
crater. A tunnel had been run directly under the Confederates, and then
a huge mine had been exploded. All that part was successful, but the
Union army had made a deep pit, more formidable than the earthwork
itself.
Never had men created a more terrible trap for themselves. The name,
the crater, was well deserved. It was a seething pit of death filled with
smoke, and from which came shouts and cries as the rim of it blazed
with the fire of those who were pouring in such a stream of metal.
Inside the pit the men could only cower low in the hope that the
hurricane of missiles would pass over their heads.
"Good God!" cried Dick. "Why don't we advance to help them!"
"Here we go now, and we may need help ourselves!" said Warner.
Again the trumpets were sending forth their shrill call to battle and
death, and, as the colonel waved his sword, the regiment charged
forward with others to rescue the men in the crater. A bright sun was
shining now, and the Southern leaders saw the heavy, advancing
column. They were rapidly bringing up more guns and more riflemen,
and, shifting a part of their fire, a storm of death blew in the faces of
those who would go to the rescue.
As at Cold Harbor, the men in blue could not live before such a fire at
close quarters, and the regiments were compelled to recoil, while those
who were left alive in the crater surrendered. The trumpets sounded the
unwilling call to withdraw, and the Winchester men, many of them
shedding tears of grief and rage, fell back to their old place, while from
some distant point, rising above the dying fire of the cannon and rifles,
came the long, fierce rebel yell, full of defiance and triumph.
The effect upon Dick of the sight in the crater was so overwhelming
that he was compelled to lie down.
"Why do we do such things?" he exclaimed, after the faintness passed.
"Why do we waste so many lives in such vain efforts?"

"We have to try," replied Warner, gloomily. "The thing was all right as
far as it went, but it broke against a hedge of fire and steel, crowning a
barrier that we had created for ourselves."
"Let's not talk about it," said Pennington, who had been faint too. "It's
enough to have seen it. I am going to blot it out of my mind if I can."
But not one of the three was ever able wholly to forget that hideous
dawn. Luckily the Winchesters themselves had suffered little, but they
were quite content to remain in their old place by the brook, where the
next day a large man in civilian dress introduced himself to Dick.
"Perhaps you don't remember me, Mr. Mason," he said, "but in such
times as these it's easy to forget chance acquaintances."
Dick looked at him closely. He was elderly, with heavy pouches under
his eyes and a rotund figure, but he looked uncommonly alert and his
pale blue eyes had a penetrating quality. Then Dick recalled him.
"You're Mr. Watson, the contractor," he said.
"Right. Shake hands."
Dick shook his hand, and he noticed that, while it was fat, it was strong
and dry. He hated damp hands, which always seemed to him to have a
slimy touch, as if their owner were reptilian.
"I suppose business is good with you, Mr. Watson," he said.
"It couldn't be better, and such affairs as the one I witnessed this
morning mean more. But doubtless I have grieved over it as much as
you. I may profit by the great struggle, but I have not wished either the
war or its continuance. Someone must do the work I am doing. You're a