War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 36
XXXVI
AS GRASS OF THE FIELD
HOW hard it is to stop a fight—till all are put out in some way! This one went on without leaders, just for spite. Only a few of Jon's and Dave's men, mostly wounded or prisoners of each other, stood around us. We were almost alone. Both Union and rebels took their hats off when Jon drooped on Dave's breast. They seemed to understand.
For a minute Dave was stunned. He saw nothing but Jon's smiling face, the eyes open, looking straight at him, when he turned it up. Even I could hardly believe, from the looks, that my boy was dead. Dave kept stroking Jon's long light hair and saying crazy baby things. But after a while he spoke so's I could hear:
"You're not hurt badly, are you, Jonthy? Just brace up. Dave would rather die a thousand times than hurt you. You see, I was blind and crazy with pain, and blood in my eyes, or I would have known you as you crawled over the horse. You know how that is, being a soldier, and a better and braver and honester one than I. When you have pain you can hardly stand, and blood from a saber cut in your eyes, you just fire at anything and everything—just for spite and hell in general. And we're all black as niggers with powder. Now wake up, Jonthy, dear. Dave's your prisoner, and he's glad of it. But you've got to take him in. Then he'll nurse you well of the wound he gave you. My God—to think of me shooting you! Jonthy, wake up and tell me you forgive me!"
Just then, as if Jon really heard, the eyes fell shut, and the nerveless head nestled closer to Dave, and bowed a little as if in assent. And, also, just then, Dave pressed his face down to Jon's and knew that he was dead—and, that he had killed him! I hope I shall never again see such a look on a man's face as that I saw on the face of my own son then.
I got them both. No one objected. All was sorry for me. And when we took senseless Dave up, we found that he had all the time been pinned by the legs under his dead horse. Neither he nor any one else had thought of the pain and horror of that. Jon I laid on the old Jerry-horse, and Dave on Jon's horse. Both Jon's and Dave's men helped. There was no North nor South there then, but only men. And it showed what we all really were in distress. Just brothers. It was strange how they all seemed to understand.
So we went homeward, slow and solemn, the dead and wounded all about us, I leading the Jerry-horse, Corbin leading Jon's. The battle was over. I don't know who was whipped. But both sides opened ranks as we passed and saluted. The choir of girls was out—yes, as they said they would be—and the rusty old preacher at their head. But it was not a song of victory they sang as we passed, but that same old thing, Home, Sweet Home. And all formed in ranks and followed. The girls were still dressed in white, and had green garlands on their heads and pink and blue sashes around their waists. But I think each dear young eye in those hundreds had a tear for my boys—and maybe, for me. The rusty old preacher recited the services for the dead.
"Lord," he said, "thou sayest, truly, that we know not what a day may bring forth. But an hour ago these young brothers were lusty with life. Now one is dead by the other's hand. And that one maimed. Truly man is like the beast which perisheth. Man is like to vanity. He cometh forth as a flower and is cut down; he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not."
And so we came home.