Over the Guns by Anon.

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jan 12, 1882

Over the Guns.

By Anon.

HERE is the position. Three guns of a divided battery are stationed on the crest of a hill to the left of an old orchard which surrounds an ancient farm-house. The other three are on the right of the orchard, and the six pieces point to the meadows below—meadows broken by fences and haystacks and lone trees, until they are lost in the edge of the woods a mile away. The eye ranges over the fields in front and sees nothing to fear. The ear listens to sounds in rear of the battery and hears the ominous preparations for a bloody struggle. Cavalry are swinging away to the right to get position, infantry are marching here and there—guns rushing along at a gallop, and aids fly from point to point with orders. In ten minutes a deep stillness begins to settle down over the left wing. The doves fly down from their cots, the hens walk about in search of food, and the gray-headed farmer stands at the door and shades his eyes with his hands and looks curiously about him. Twenty minutes ago he sat rocking on the porch and the bees flew lazily in the June sunshine, the birds sang in the orchard, and afar down the meadow he heard the voices of his sons as they swung their scythes.

Ah! what's that? Down there where meadow and forest blend we can see quick puffs of blue smoke, and here comes the sound of muskets. A blue cloud just begins to gather and rise down there, and we catch sight of men. They are retreating back—coming towards the orchard. They fall back slowly, halting at every fence to tear it down and to deliver a fire from behind the scattered rails. Now we see a long thin line of skirmishers emerge from the woods and occupy the ground as the other line loses it. Back! back! forward! forward! and you might think it a pantomime if men did not fall out of the lines here and there and drop heavily on the earth.

There is a stir around us. The silence has been so deep that the jingle of a sabre or rattle of a spur has made men nervous. Out from the edge of the woods by the broad highway and across the peaceful fields, pours a host of armed men. Regiment after regiment and line after line, sweeping forward like mighty waves—now undulating, like the course of a serpent—now marching as steadily as the stride of Time. One—three—five—ten—you cannot count the flags. Silk and fringe and gold and bunting stream over the heads of the men whose eyes are fixed on the orchard and the hill-side. The stir deepens. There is a tramping of feet, orders are given in quick, sharp tones, and three companies of infantry come up at a double-quick as a support and fling themselves down under the trees. Just a moment now to listen to the notes of the blue-birds and robins—to see the blue smoke creeping lazily from the farm-house chimney—to note that the marching lines are almost within musket-shot, and down over the men and guns and sabres and shot and shells falls a shower of pink and white apple-blossoms—emblems of purity and peace! Aye! a rough hand brushes them off a cannon which a moment later is carrying a horrible death to a score of men.

"Boom! boom! boom!"

Now the fight has begun. Men raise their voices from whispers to mad shouts. The smoke leaps up and stains the pure blossoms. The flame springs forward and scorches the green grass to yellow, and then burns it to the roots.

Are the lines yet advancing?

You cannot see ten feet beyond the guns, but you can hear. Heavens! but how they shout and scream and shriek and curse! The guns are using grape and canister, and the murderous missiles cut men into shreds and scatter flesh and blood over the living far behind. We are driving them back! hip! hip! hur!—

No! Here they are! Through the cloud of flame and smoke they rush at the guns—spectres of death bursting through and over the vapory barrier which has reared itself between the living and the dead. They shout in fury! They shriek in despair! They fight the very flame which dissolves them and they pass the muzzles of the grim monsters! Here on this acre of ground—here beneath the apple blossoms—is a hell on earth. A hell in which smoke and flame and curse and wail and blood and wounds and death are so mingled that those outside of it only hear one terrible and appalling roar, as if some fierce beast had received its death-wound.

Shoot to the right or left—over the guns or under them. Strike where you will, but strike to destroy! Now the hell surges down even to the windows of the old farm-house—now back under the apple trees and beyond it. Dead men are under the ponderous wheels of the guns—mad devils are slashing and shooting across the barrels. No one seems to know friend from foe. Shoot! slash! kill! and—!

But the hell is dissolved. The smoke is lifting, shrieks and screams growing fainter, and twenty or thirty living men pull the bodies of the dead away from the guns and renew the slaughter against the lines marching across the meadow. Three hundred dead and wounded on the single acre! Blood on the grass, blood on tire and spoke and gun! Arms hacked off—brains spattered against the trees—skulls cleft in twain and bloody fingers fast clenched into blood-red grass!

They tell of war and glory. Look over this hell's acre and find the latter.—Anon.