Eagle River review. [volume] (Eagle River, Wis.) 1890-1927, 1908-03-27

shooter shoots no more. Corporal Jonet
turns proudly to meet the commenda-
ton his comrades promptly give.
Hours pass and now the fun is over
head. Shot after shot has been fired
and but few have been wasted.
Over the swell to the right lies the
Indiana Heavy" the Jackass Battery,
the PARROTS which mock the thunder
when they speak to the rebels. Here
the rife pit widens into q redan, with
gun platforms and embrasures where
the four long nosed black "barkers'
poke their muzZles out into the open,
and where the Indiana boys, whose
steady infantry line at Baton Rouge
had checked the charging veterans of
Breckenridge from Shiloh and Corinth,
are waiting for orders from the rear
Or for some movement in front to claim
their attention. HaversackS are open
and pork and hard tack" are forth
coming and rapidly disappearing be-
tween the active jaws Of the gunners.
Presently, with lighted pipes (there
was a tobacco ration that week y they
seek the scanty shade.
Lord. but the gentle June is hot in
this low latitude!
An hour later and welcome clouds
are hiding the sun. and through the air
is still sultry faint suspicion of a
zephyr stirs the leaves behind us.
Just then there is stir on the other
side, Il rumble as of rolling wheels, Il
glimpse of a t1uttering guidon. bugle
call or signal, and before the Indiana
"heavies' can reach their stations Il
battery opens from behind the clay
bank yonder and shells are speeding
and screaming toward us over the
waste between. We know that screech
with it's "Where's dat niger: Where's
dat nigger?" query 1t is the voice
of WhitWorth shells made in English
hands and fired from English guns !.
And now the ''ParrottS' talk back and
iron compliments are returned in Yam
kee metal from Yankee guns.
1t is little unusual, this artillery
duel in the early afternoon. Is it the
prelude to a sOrtie?
We know the "Johnnies" are OH
short rations and that corn meal and
mule meat are scarce on the Port Hud-
son plateau ever since our batteries
destroyed their only meal mill, five
days ago.
Are they going to assault and at
tempt to break our line Of investment?
Now and then battery man, struck
by the flying missile, goes down the
hill with shattered arm, bleeding
face or a streak of dark red staining
the light blue of his trousers.
Sharp eyes are peering toward the
front through the smoke. Will they
come? Are they forming for the
charge?
The general comes up. glass in hand.
Heavy details now line the rife pits
and still the guns pound away, but no
over the works beyond.
The gathering clouds above have
grown black as we waited and the air
grown dark, and presently the lurid
tongues of fame from the mouths of
the great guns are quenched by dazzling
lightning-and the cannonade is drown
ed in the roar of heavens artillery.
AS if by common consent the guns
cease firing on both sides, and as the
storm breaks upon the cOmbatants they
likewise break for shelter-all, save
the pickets in the trenches.
An hour of tropical storm such as no
pen can truthfully describe and then
the clouds roll away and the sun, de-
scending over the river to his resting
place behind the cypress swamps,
glances across the dripping branches
where the rain drops shine like scat
tered diamonds, while all the air is
fresh and filled with sweet forest
odors. and for the space of three hours
there is peace before the darkness
comes again.-W. c. Reddy, in New
York Advertiser