The pieces
stood ranged in the order in which they had so often stood in battle,
and the gray, thin fog rising slowly and silently from the river
deep down between the cliffs, and wreathing the mountain-side above,
might have been the smoke from some unearthly battle fought in the dim pass
by ghostly guns, yet posted there in the darkness, manned by phantom gunners,
while phantom horses stood behind, lit vaguely up by phantom camp-fires.
At the given word the laniards were pulled together, and together as one
the six black guns, belching flame and lead, roared their last challenge
on the misty night, sending a deadly hail of shot and shell,
tearing the trees and splintering the rocks of the farther side,
and sending the thunder reverberating through the pass and down the mountain,
startling from its slumber the sleeping camp on the hills below,
and driving the browsing deer and the prowling mountain-fox in terror
up the mountain.
There was silence among the men about the guns for one brief instant
and then such a cheer burst forth as had never broken from them
even in battle: cheer on cheer, the long, wild, old familiar rebel yell
for the guns they had fought with and loved.
The noise had not died away and the men behind were still trying to quiet
the frightened horses when the sergeant, the same who had written,
received from the hand of the Colonel a long package or roll
which contained the records of the battery furnished by the men
and by the Colonel himself, securely wrapped to make them water-tight,
and it was rammed down the yet warm throat of the nearest gun: the Cat,
and then the gun was tamped to the muzzle to make her water-tight,
and, like her sisters, was spiked, and her vent tamped tight.
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