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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Eben Holden, a tale of the north country"

Our army looked and cursed and began letting
go. The men near me were pausing on the brink of awful rout In a
moment they were off, pell-mell, like a flock of sheep. The earth
shook under them. Officers rode around them, cursing,
gesticulating, threatening, but nothing could stop them. Half a
dozen trees had stood in the centre of the roaring mass. Now a few
men clung to them - a remnant of the monster that had torn away.
But the greater host was now coming. The thunder of its many feet
was near me; a cloud of dust hung over it. A squadron of cavalry
came rushing by and broke into the fleeing mass. Heavy horses,
cut free from artillery, came galloping after them, straps flying
over foamy flanks. Two riders clung to the back of each, lashing
with whip and rein. The nick of wagons came after them, wheels
rattling, horses running, voices shrilling in a wild hoot of terror. It
makes me tremble even now, as I think of it, though it is muffled
under the cover of nearly forty years! I saw they would go over me.


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