The note behind the ridge changed to something deeper.
"Ah! Our guns," said an artillery officer, and smiled
tolerantly on the last blue waves of the Line already beating
toward the horizon.
They came twelve abreast--one hundred and fifty guns free for
the moment to take the air in company, behind their teams.
And next week would see them, hidden singly or in lurking
confederacies, by mountain and marsh and forest, or the
wrecked habitations of men--where?
The big guns followed them, with that long-nosed air of
detachment peculiar to the breed. The Gunner at my side made
no comment. He was content to let his Arm speak for itself,
but when one big gun in a sticky place fell out of alignment
for an instant I saw his eyebrows contract. The artillery
passed on with the same inhuman speed and silence as the Line;
and the Cavalry's shattering trumpets closed it all.
They are like our Cavalry in that their horses are in high
condition, and they talk hopefully of getting past the barbed
wire one of these days and coming into their own. Meantime,
they are employed on "various work as requisite," and they all
sympathize with our rough-rider of Dragoons who flatly refused
to take off his spurs in the trenches. If he had to die as a
damned infantryman, he wasn't going to be buried as such. A
troop-horse of a flanking squadron decided that he had had
enough of war, and jibbed like Lot's wife. His rider (we all
watched him) ranged about till he found a stick, which he
used, but without effect. Then he got off and led the horse,
which was evidently what the brute wanted, for when the man
remounted the jibbing began again. The last we saw of him was
one immensely lonely figure leading one bad but happy horse
across an absolutely empty world. Think of his reception--the
sole man of 40,000 who had fallen out!