It is a panting,
staggering, bleeding remnant only of the brave division that is coming
back so slowly yonder. They are swept from the fatal hill--pursued by
yells, cheers, cannon-shot, musket-balls, and canister. As they
doggedly retire before the howling hurricane, the wounded are seen to
stagger and fall. Over the dead and dying sweeps the canister. Amid
volleys of musketry and the roar of cannon, all but a handful of
Pickett's Virginians pass into eternity.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE GREAT MOMENT OF A GREAT LIFE.
I was gazing gloomily at the field covered with detachments limping
back amid a great whirlwind of shell, when a mounted officer rode out
of the smoke. In his right hand he carried his drawn sword--his left
arm was thrown around a wounded boy whom he supported on the pommel of
his saddle.
In the cavalier I recognized General Davenant, whom I had seen near the
village of Paris, and who was now personally known to me. In the boy
I recognized the urchin, Charley, with the braided jacket and jaunty
cap.
I spurred toward him.
"Your son--!" I said, and I pointed to the boy.
"He is dying I think, colonel!" was the reply in a hoarse voice. The
gray mustache trembled, and the eye of the father rested, moist but
fiery, on the boy.
"Such a child!" I said.
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