Some had sunk down for
a moment by the roadside, agonized with weariness, in order to breathe
without the weight of their knapsacks, and draw their swollen feet from
their leather prisons, and wipe off the sweat; but upon trying to renew
their march, they found it impossible to rise. Their bodies seemed made
of stone. Fatigue had brought them to a condition bordering on catalepsy
so, unable to move, they were seeing dimly the rest of the army passing
on as a fantastic file--battalions, more battalions, batteries, troops
of horses. Then the silence, the night, the sleep on the stones and
dust, shaken by most terrible nightmare. At daybreak they were awakened
by bodies of horsemen exploring the ground, rounding up the remnants of
the retreat. Ay, it was impossible to move! The dragoons, revolver
in hand, had to resort to threats in order to rouse them! Only the
certainty that the pursuer was near and might make them prisoners gave
them a momentary vigor. So they were forcing themselves up by superhuman
effort, staggering, dragging their legs, and supporting themselves on
their guns as though they were canes.
Many of these were young men who had aged in an hour and changed into
confirmed invalids. Poor fellows! They would not go very far! Their
intention was to follow on, to join the column, but on entering the
village they looked at the houses with supplicating eyes, desiring to
enter them, feeling such a craving for immediate relief that they forgot
even the nearness of the enemy.
Pages:
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328