Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1910-06-30
e The Palais Royal 44s4zE q and 18th SITS.

dark when we began that foolishness,
and good many of the boys had drop
ped out of their saddles. and few
horses were running up and down with
us, just for company. I guess, or be-
cause they knew the calls and followed
the bugle. / remember how the little
moon hung over the trees and the stars
came out, but our captain kept up the
fight. 1t was all like a lark. but silly,
for we were in between the lines. where
we might have brought on a general en-
gagement with all the racket we were
making. / remember thinking the game
would last forever, as we charged and
wheeled and flung ourselves at the gray
boys; and every time we swung at them
again there were more soft thumps where
my horse struck dead men. l have
dreamed about that thousand times
the scared little moon. and the rattle of
accouterments, and the pounding hoofs,
and the yells and the crack Of pistols;
but it was mostly the saber, splashing
and cutting. / felt that now 1 had got
the hang of it. it would be just as easy
to bugle the stars out of the sky as to
sound charge and recall there by the
ford. Well, we got the ford all righ,,
but when we splashed through to the
other side there was only about half of
us left. and I felt sick and giddy when
/ looked down and saw the little captain
was gone and the lieutenant was riding
by me, where that brown-eyed boy had
been.
THAT was only the beginning and l got
hardened fast enough; but when the war
was over l used to wake up at night and
think of all the battles I'd fought in. and
try to count up the men / had bugled
out to die. Then | married and had
home for while, but my wife died. and
those old times began to get bigger and
bigger. and now l never look back to
anything but just those days of the
camp and the fights; and the bugle sings
in my ears all the time, as though it
, calling to the men l sent into bat
ties where they died!'
Wars an ugly business; somebody has
to be killed" said Wayne. kindly, moved
to pity by the veterans emotion.
1--WE trumpeted my thousands down to
DEATH he answered, and then. clearing
his throat he went on:
II dream every night that I'm on
high place-not here, but a grayish sort
of hill. with gray cloud hanging over
it. and l look down and see long lines of
them marching.
'Them?" Wayne asked.
Ghosts the ghosts of dead soldiers,
marching with their heads bowed down,
the way tired soldiers march at night.
And when line passes, another
trumpeter strikes up and another army
of the same tired ghosts follows rights
after. It's all mighty still-you never
hear any sounds at all except the
trumpet. and it's muff1ed and choked-
not even when the cavalry comes along
or the artillery. You know how moving
guns rumble like thunder when they go
along a hard road? Well. you never
| hear even the cannon, but the cavalry
| ride with their heads down, like the in
| fantry. and the horses with their noses
against their knees almost: and the artil-
| lerymen sit the caissons with their
arms folded and their heads bowed, as
| though they We're asleep. l can't make
out where they came from Or where they
are going; they just came out of no
| where and go nowhere-but they never
stop coming. And the trumpeters blow
back all the men that have ever died in
battle since the world began-so that
they are years and years passing by
that's the way it seems in my dream.
Then I'm all alone on the hill. and
know it's my turn to sound the trumpet;
and something clicks in my throat when
! I try to blow, and l can't make sound.
and as ! keep trying and trying l wake
up: but 1 never can make them come. 1
can't bring back my dead men out Of the
dust the way the others did. and 1 sit
up and cry when / remember how 1
killed them"
CTo be continued tomorrow