Then, wheeling and facing his command, his voice rang out, clear as a
bugle;
"A--r--m--s, 'port! Double-time, march! Ch--ar--ge, bayonets! Hurrah!
Give 'em a yell, boys, and you can do it," added the colonel.
I cannot describe the shout which followed--a clear, ringing, organized
whoop; fresh and vibrant; of a perfectly distinct quality from the
hoarse, undisciplined howl of the mob--sounding cool and terrible, like
the cry of an avenging angel.
The mob turned and fled, appalled, melting away like wax before the blue
flame of the glittering bayonets, and the regiment entered the depot.
Then I took time to breathe, and remembered Thomas.
"He ain't fur f'om yere," said the boy. "Right 'roun' d' corner."
And we passed out of the shelter of the doorway to a small, dirty alley,
about twenty-five yards distant, where I found the old man resting
against a lamp-post, the blood streaming down his face from a ghastly
wound in the head, and his eyes closed. I made the boy get some water,
and after bathing his face for a few moments, I succeeded in rousing
him.
"Is that you, Mist' Dunkin?" he asked, faintly.
"Yes. How do you feel, Thomas?"
"Dey's tuhibul times down-street," he gasped. "I like to got kilt."
A pause.
"Dey 'lowed dey wanted dem daih papehs--an'--dey didn't git
'um--an'--den--den dey hit me side de hade--with a brickbat--an' I come
'long tell I git yeah--an' den, disha boy he come 'long--"
His voice was very faint and his hands very cold
"Don't talk any more now," I said, chafing them in mine, while I
wondered perplexedly how I should get him home.
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