The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce — Volume 2: In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians

THE FIGHTING OF ONE WHOSE HEART WAS NOT IN THE QUARREL

Guided in his retreat by that of the fugitive wounded, the Governor struggled bravely to the rear through the “bad bit of jungle.”  He was well winded and a trifle confused.  Excepting a single rifle-shot now and again, there was no sound of strife behind him; the enemy was pulling himself together for a new onset against an antagonist of whose numbers and tactical disposition he was in doubt.  The fugitive felt that he would probably be spared to his country, and only commended the arrangements of Providence to that end, but in leaping a small brook in more open ground one of the arrangements incurred the mischance of a disabling sprain at the ankle.  He was unable to continue his flight, for he was too fat to hop, and after several vain attempts, causing intolerable pain, seated himself on the earth to nurse his ignoble disability and deprecate the military situation.

A brisk renewal of the firing broke out and stray bullets came flitting and droning by.  Then came the crash of two clean, definite volleys, followed by a continuous rattle, through which he heard the yells and cheers of the combatants, punctuated by thunderclaps of cannon.  All this told him that Armisted’s little command was bitterly beset and fighting at close quarters.  The wounded men whom he had distanced began to straggle by on either hand, their numbers visibly augmented by new levies from the line.  Singly and by twos and threes, some supporting comrades more desperately hurt than themselves, but all deaf to his appeals for assistance, they sifted through the underbrush and disappeared.  The firing was increasingly louder and more distinct, and presently the ailing fugitives were succeeded by men who strode with a firmer tread, occasionally facing about and discharging their pieces, then doggedly resuming their retreat, reloading as they walked.  Two or three fell as he looked, and lay motionless.  One had enough of life left in him to make a pitiful attempt to drag himself to cover.  A passing comrade paused beside him long enough to fire, appraised the poor devil’s disability with a look and moved sullenly on, inserting a cartridge in his weapon.

In all this was none of the pomp of war—­no hint of glory.  Even in his distress and peril the helpless civilian could not forbear to contrast it with the gorgeous parades and reviews held in honor of himself—­with the brilliant uniforms, the music, the banners, and the marching.  It was an ugly and sickening business:  to all that was artistic in his nature, revolting, brutal, in bad taste.

“Ugh!” he grunted, shuddering—­“this is beastly!  Where is the charm of it all?  Where are the elevated sentiments, the devotion, the heroism, the—­”

From a point somewhere near, in the direction of the pursuing enemy, rose the clear, deliberate sing-song of Captain Armisted.

“Stead-y, men—­stead-y.  Halt!  Com-mence fir-ing.”

The rattle of fewer than a score of rifles could be distinguished through the general uproar, and again that penetrating falsetto: 

“Cease fir-ing.  In re-treat… maaarch!”

In a few moments this remnant had drifted slowly past the Governor, all to the right of him as they faced in retiring, the men deployed at intervals of a half-dozen paces.  At the extreme left and a few yards behind came the captain.  The civilian called out his name, but he did not hear.  A swarm of men in gray now broke out of cover in pursuit, making directly for the spot where the Governor lay—­some accident of the ground had caused them to converge upon that point:  their line had become a crowd.  In a last struggle for life and liberty the Governor attempted to rise, and looking back the captain saw him.  Promptly, but with the same slow precision as before, he sang his commands: 

“Skirm-ish-ers, halt!” The men stopped and according to rule turned to face the enemy.

“Ral-ly on the right!”—­and they came in at a run, fixing bayonets and forming loosely on the man at that end of the line.

“Forward… to save the Gov-ern-or of your State… doub-le quick… maaarch!”

Only one man disobeyed this astonishing command!  He was dead.  With a cheer they sprang forward over the twenty or thirty paces between them and their task.  The captain having a shorter distance to go arrived first—­simultaneously with the enemy.  A half-dozen hasty shots were fired at him, and the foremost man—­a fellow of heroic stature, hatless and bare-breasted—­made a vicious sweep at his head with a clubbed rifle.  The officer parried the blow at the cost of a broken arm and drove his sword to the hilt into the giant’s breast.  As the body fell the weapon was wrenched from his hand and before he could pluck his revolver from the scabbard at his belt another man leaped upon him like a tiger, fastening both hands upon his throat and bearing him backward upon the prostrate Governor, still struggling to rise.  This man was promptly spitted upon the bayonet of a Federal sergeant and his death-gripe on the captain’s throat loosened by a kick upon each wrist.  When the captain had risen he was at the rear of his men, who had all passed over and around him and were thrusting fiercely at their more numerous but less coherent antagonists.  Nearly all the rifles on both sides were empty and in the crush there was neither time nor room to reload.  The Confederates were at a disadvantage in that most of them lacked bayonets; they fought by bludgeoning—­and a clubbed rifle is a formidable arm.  The sound of the conflict was a clatter like that of the interlocking horns of battling bulls—­now and then the pash of a crushed skull, an oath, or a grunt caused by the impact of a rifle’s muzzle against the abdomen transfixed by its bayonet.  Through an opening made by the fall of one of his men Captain Armisted sprang, with his dangling left arm; in his right hand a full-charged revolver, which he fired with rapidity and terrible effect into the thick of the gray crowd:  but across the bodies of the slain the survivors in the front were pushed forward by their comrades in the rear till again they breasted the tireless bayonets.  There were fewer bayonets now to breast—­a beggarly half-dozen, all told.  A few minutes more of this rough work—­a little fighting back to back—­and all would be over.

Suddenly a lively firing was heard on the right and the left:  a fresh line of Federal skirmishers came forward at a run, driving before them those parts of the Confederate line that had been separated by staying the advance of the centre.  And behind these new and noisy combatants, at a distance of two or three hundred yards, could be seen, indistinct among the trees a line-of-battle!

Instinctively before retiring, the crowd in gray made a tremendous rush upon its handful of antagonists, overwhelming them by mere momentum and, unable to use weapons in the crush, trampled them, stamped savagely on their limbs, their bodies, their necks, their faces; then retiring with bloody feet across its own dead it joined the general rout and the incident was at an end.