Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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Philips started again toward the tents, all his excitement was now gone. Sorrow was stealing into his heart. On both sides iay the dead and dying. A riderless horse was standing over a rigid corpse, all that was left of the master that he had loved. As he stumbled on, two huge vultures rose a little way from the ground, then settled back to tearing the flesh from a body. A cold, grey, nameless fear was stealing into his heart. It seemed like a clammy hand that was closing over it, robbing it of all but unspeakable fear and dread. He tried to shake it off but the clammy hand squeezed tighter. He looked down. A corpse with a powder-blackened face stared wildly up at him. He turned to the right to get away from those glaring eyes. But there he saw dozens instead of one pair. He turned to the left and put up his arm to shut out the awful- ness—the toll of war. A nasty, cold, grey mist was falling. Be¬ hind, the screaming roar of battle bore down upon the man and engulfed him. Before his mental vision came an awful apparition, a huge grin¬ ning skeleton was mounted on a wounded horse. The figure wore a slimy, grey misty robe and dragged along behind were mutilat¬ ed corpses over which hideous vultures were fighting. Some of the tattered uniforms were blue and some were grey. The skeleton stopped, grinned more friendishly than before and said, “My name is Death, my joy is war, and this my holi¬ day since Waterloo. Philips opened his eyes, but the glaring eyes of Death ' s vic¬ tims stared wildly up at him. The mutilated bodies looked more awful in the drizzling rain. How soon would he, now standing here alive and warm, be lying mutilated, or be torn to bits by the vultures ? A little voice seeming to come from the mists, whispered “desert. Desert? Yes, that is what I ' ll do. I will get away from these awful blood-soaked fields and staring eyes. The vultures shall not have me, thought the private. No one will ever know. They will think that I am dead. These dead will never be searched. He could see his mother coming out to meet him. How glad she would be. She would forgive him for deserting. “I will, he breathed and clenched his fists. In his left hand he felt something hard. He opened his hand and from Ben’s locket his sister the girl with the sunlight in her hair, looked up at Philips. He bent down to kiss the locket, but—no, he was not 26

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guns were planted, all took their places in readiness. Both sides seemed to realize the toll that would be collected in the Valley of Death which lay between the armies. Both sides were loath to start the battle. A long nerve-racking wait after the men were stationed. A few shots came from the southern ranks, the north¬ ern soldiers replied, the battle had started. Far down the line came shots, then more, and more; cannons belched forth death. The flower of the confederacy was lined across the valley. Spurts of flame told of the starting of the missiles; groans, shrieks, and prayers of the wounded and dying told of their end. Then the rumble and roar gave promise of more to come. The din grew denser, the charges could not be distinguished from the thundering roar that rolled across the valley from side to side and reverberated among the hills. The men are falling, their places are filled by those from behind as the onslaught con¬ tinues. It is four o’clock on that afternoon. Look across on that hill, the line seems to be advancing. Are they moving? They are coming. Yes, they are coming. The bugles are blowing and the drums are playing Dixie. The men proudly step along. The light hits their bayonets and looks like scales of a huge serpent creep¬ ing on its prey. Now the huge guns are seen, one hundred twenty- six cannon. Now they are within range, they open fire on Ceme¬ tery Ridge. The Union flag staff is broken. It falls. The little drummer boy on the box catches it. A missile strikes him. The little drum¬ mer boy falls with the flag under him. He is quickly raised. The field of the flag is gone and the stripes are all red now. “Private Philips, to the mess tent, third tent, fourth row, bring new flag.” “Behind the hill, boys, they want the hill, we’ll give them h-.” Back across the field went Philips all excitement. Would they be so daring as to really try to take the hill. It must be only a bait for the Blues. Would they take the hill? No, they couldn’t, but,—how close would they get?” Ugh! Philips had tripped over a cor pse. His arm was in a pool of blood that was not yet cold. He was lying between the bodies of a horse and man. “Poor fellow, not yet cold, leg blown off. Good God, it’s Ben. Here is a locket, I’ll keep it for his folks.” 25

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worthy to touch even her painted likeness. He had vowed to be¬ come a traitor. He again heard a low voice say, “do your duty—but I know you will.” Then he remembered the commanding tones, “third tent, fourth row, new flag.” Gripping the locket firmly he went forward, “third tent, fourth row,” and found the flag, went back across the field. He joined the ranks. “Let ’em have it boys,” the Rebs were almost to the cannon’s mouth. The southern flag was flying, now it waves for an instant, it waves on the northern breastworks. But.only for an instant, for brave Armistead falls, not dead but like the southern confederacy, not yet dead but mortally wounded. Philips springs forward, plants the flag and hears the joyous shouts of his comrades. He sees it wave victorious, he smiles and kisses the miniature. Tears were coursing down the old man’s cheeks. He drew from his breast a flat locket, pressed a spring and there within, a tiny piece of a flag. A piece of the flag that waved victorious over Cemetery Ridge, the same flag that floated above President Lincoln when he gave his address that stilled the hearts of those present and stirs the patriotism of all who read or hear it. A tear dropped on the piece of flag. The old man picks it up tenderly. There looking up at him is the girl with the sunshine in her hair. 27