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

WHY, BEING AFFRONTED BY A, IT IS NOT BEST TO AFFRONT B

General Masterson rode into the redoubt.  The men, gathered in groups, were talking loudly and gesticulating.  They pointed at the dead, running from one body to another.  They neglected their foul and heated guns and forgot to resume their outer clothing.  They ran to the parapet and looked over, some of them leaping down into the ditch.  A score were gathered about a flag rigidly held by a dead man.

“Well, my men,” said the general cheerily, “you have had a pretty fight of it.”

They stared; nobody replied; the presence of the great man seemed to embarrass and alarm.

Getting no response to his pleasant condescension, the easy-mannered officer whistled a bar or two of a popular air, and riding forward to the parapet, looked over at the dead.  In an instant he had whirled his horse about and was spurring along in rear of the guns, his eyes everywhere at once.  An officer sat on the trail of one of the guns, smoking a cigar.  As the general dashed up he rose and tranquilly saluted.

“Captain Ransome!”—­the words fell sharp and harsh, like the clash of steel blades—­“you have been fighting our own men—­our own men, sir; do you hear?  Hart’s brigade!”

“General, I know that.”

“You know it—­you know that, and you sit here smoking?  Oh, damn it, Hamilton, I’m losing my temper,”—­this to his provost-marshal.  “Sir—­ Captain Ransome, be good enough to say—­to say why you fought our own men.”

“That I am unable to say.  In my orders that information was withheld.”

Apparently the general did not comprehend.

“Who was the aggressor in this affair, you or General Hart?” he asked.

“I was.”

“And could you not have known—­could you not see, sir, that you were attacking our own men?”

The reply was astounding!

“I knew that, general.  It appeared to be none of my business.”

Then, breaking the dead silence that followed his answer, he said: 

“I must refer you to General Cameron.”

“General Cameron is dead, sir—­as dead as he can be—­as dead as any man in this army.  He lies back yonder under a tree.  Do you mean to say that he had anything to do with this horrible business?”

Captain Ransome did not reply.  Observing the altercation his men had gathered about to watch the outcome.  They were greatly excited.  The fog, which had been partly dissipated by the firing, had again closed in so darkly about them that they drew more closely together till the judge on horseback and the accused standing calmly before him had but a narrow space free from intrusion.  It was the most informal of courts-martial, but all felt that the formal one to follow would but affirm its judgment.  It had no jurisdiction, but it had the significance of prophecy.

“Captain Ransome,” the general cried impetuously, but with something in his voice that was almost entreaty, “if you can say anything to put a better light upon your incomprehensible conduct I beg you will do so.”

Having recovered his temper this generous soldier sought for something to justify his naturally sympathetic attitude toward a brave man in the imminence of a dishonorable death.

“Where is Lieutenant Price?” the captain said.

That officer stood forward, his dark saturnine face looking somewhat forbidding under a bloody handkerchief bound about his brow.  He understood the summons and needed no invitation to speak.  He did not look at the captain, but addressed the general: 

“During the engagement I discovered the state of affairs, and apprised the commander of the battery.  I ventured to urge that the firing cease.  I was insulted and ordered to my post.”

“Do you know anything of the orders under which I was acting?” asked the captain.

“Of any orders under which the commander of the battery was acting,” the lieutenant continued, still addressing the general, “I know nothing.”

Captain Ransome felt his world sink away from his feet.  In those cruel words he heard the murmur of the centuries breaking upon the shore of eternity.  He heard the voice of doom; it said, in cold, mechanical, and measured tones:  “Ready, aim, fire!” and he felt the bullets tear his heart to shreds.  He heard the sound of the earth upon his coffin and (if the good God was so merciful) the song of a bird above his forgotten grave.  Quietly detaching his sabre from its supports, he handed it up to the provost-marshal.