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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Eben Holden, a tale of the north country"


'Good God!' he shouted, and then ran away like one afraid. There
was a great mass of our men back of me some twenty rods. I
staggered toward them, my knees quivering.
'I can never get there,' I heard myself whisper.
I thought of my little flask of whiskey, and, pulling the cork with
my teeth, drank the half of it. That steadied me and I made better
headway. I could hear the soldiers talking as I neared them.
'Look a there!' I heard many saying. 'See 'em come! My God! Look
at 'em on the hill there!
The words went quicidy from mouth to mouth. In a moment I
could hear the murmur of thousands. I turned to see what they
were looking at. Across the valley there was a long ridge, and back
of it the main position of the Southern army. A grey host was
pouring over it - thousand upon thousand - in close order,
debouching into the valley.
A big force of our men lay between us and them. As I looked I
could see a mighty stir in it. Every man of them seemed to be
jumping up in the air. From afar came the sound of bugles calling
'retreat , the shouting of men, the rumbling of wagons.


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