But the smoke has cleared off their line and we run up to stare at silent men with their guns down. Somewhere just behind them their general is bawling, even over the volume of ours.
There is great confusion, but I am glad I was near the center where General Kosciusky, a Polish-Russian, was screaming at the men in blue.
“Stop it! Stop it! I can’t take it anymore. The lost cause! Look at you! My holy God, gray brothers, behold yourself! Cease fire! Cease it all!”
So, you see, we were just staring at their deep and thick line, every soldier in a new blue boat, their general screaming behind them.
“By God, we surrender!” he shouted. “This can’t go on. The music. The Tchaikovsky! You wretched specters coming on! It’s too much. Too much.”
Our general, stunned, went over to take his sword. We, all energy gone in the last run, sagged about. Nothing in history led us to believe we had not simply crossed over to paradise itself and were dead just minutes ago.
In their tent there was a conference. Then their men began stacking arms and bringing forward food to us. You wouldn’t believe the victuals. I gorged on honey and oysters fresh from the shell. You could hear a long constant moan of gnawing men as we sat around with plates on our laps, sucking in venison, turkey, porterhouses, piles of fat white beans.
When their general, a splendid tall man, the very replica of the bearded Greek commander, returned to the line and chanced to look down at me in my barrow, he began weeping again, and I am sorry I had nothing but a greasy face and the eyes of a dog to greet him.
Such arms, cannon, even repeating rifles; such almost infinite caissons, so many thrilling flags and handsome plump mules; and thousands of cutlasses and musical instruments — these were all ours. We, the few of the two lines and the band, could not encircle them. We did not know how to guard this host, and just gave up and fell back on more food, whiskey and coffee.
I was, as the scribe, invited into the last conference on dispensation. Our general, held by two orderlies like a towel between them, was still too stunned to gloat. His impossible silence spoke the whole moment. But we must argue a bit on the matter of a name for this battle. There were no landmarks or creeks or churches about; only a family of Germans named Hastenburg who had lived in a house northwest of the field, long obliterated, suggested any proper noun.
It was decided then that this was the Battle of Hastenburg.
Evening of the Yarp: A Report by Roonswent Dover
DARN IT WERE BORING, WISHT I WERE A HAWK OR CRAB. WHEN I SEEN him first I leapt out of my face for glad cause nothing moving lately but only rabbit nibble and run headfirst into the bottom of the purple cane. Deacon Charles at the VT school say go a head and write like this dont change. He wants to see it quick cause I seen the Yarp. Or somebody like him. Xcuse me please for not correct but I am hard attempting to spell at least sweller it being so important. Of a mountain man/boy nineteen first that day at two-forty-one o’clock afternoon on the watch I found at the road going up to Missus Skatt’s house.
The sin of the old people I wondert what it was cause I dint feel it. The evil things of Roonswent Dover which is me werent felt by me like the others cause I had no feltedness of their kind of sin. I found out the Yarp did too.
He was a man hitchhiking where dont nobody come, ever, up a red ditch juncted to a road so dirty and spit out red on the paving. He was a true-looking lean man near hungery looking in a high collar white city shirt but no necktie up on it. I passed him then slapped my thigh, why not, I’m so miserable bored. Maybe this man knewn something markable or a good thing to seek, him wanting a ride up that ditch where nobody but old woman Skatt lives. Rained down to gullies, that road, but we figure she be hungery, she walk out of there, down the mountain with her crooked feet, buffalo toenails and ruint smell. I backed up and he looked in the window. I say can’t you see no truck nor even tractor could get up that gullied red road? He said he would go on with me and rest and see Missus Skatt later. He sat down, no suitcase, bag, nor cane nor hat, just coming out of winter and going to near freeze this night. Thanks for the lift. You know where you are? I asked him. Yes I been here plenty time and I know your Missus Skatt very very well. It doesn’t matter much when I get there sooner or later but I will go with you to the store.
I asted him how he knewn I was going to the store (and I was). He said life is simple around here and I had the look of a store visit on me. Nobody much confused him and now he was hungery, feeling low and getting chill. He gave me a cigar for my trouble and said it was the kind governors and dictators smoked from Latin America. We lit up and I was feeling chumly. He asted me would there be music at the store. This struck me goofy, of course there were a radio at ever store and a televisioner too. And would there be food? I turned over to him saying what else would there be in a store to be a store at all, certain it has food, gas, oil, shells, bait, sardines, herrings, rat cheese, and two old geezer at a wood stove playing Risk, and Macky Vellens. He said what, I repeated, he pronounced it better, MacKeyavellea of course, the writer of the Prince they used as a handbook to Risk, taking on personalities, book falling depart apieces through the generations. Mr Simpson and Gene James owned it with theyr smart pet goat that makes change I swear not, only the truth alone.
Then that man, the Yarp, he said shut up. Riding aside me afortunate my charity, he said Shut Up ragely. It were glum, I werent happy, but couldnt get mad cause he seem a danger now. I dont want to hear none of your tales, boy, he kept on it, too many tales come out of these mountains and everwhere. There shouldnt be any tales.
I said well you can see the goat with his front foot, but he hissed or spat so I look out the window away from him, stopt talk.
In your mind you thinking you paying for the gas and tires hauling me. And it was true, what he said.
We had eleven mile to go and it was crooked high down to low then high again, not even a dead dog nor cat nor chicken keep you company under the overhangs of them sweaty rocks. I aint nere liked them and now, getting on dark, the mountains I feel they live and sqeeze in on you to a narrow lane when nobody’s around. I nere give up that feeling sinct I was a kid. It aint Arkansas or no real place. Now come sleet specking my poor dusty glass all acracked, which, I didn’t like the sun running down either.
We’ll have a nice snow tonight, the Yarp adventured. The quiet I was keeping didnt make no call to break it so I remaint quiet. Nineteen or not I was frighted. But if the quiet woulder asked me I woulder said You fool, it’s on too late to snow, that sleet is just a peck from some froze cloud way up there. Its April, you fool.
Yes it’ll catch Missus Skatt just unfreezing from the winter. She won’t have enough wood. I’m sure glad I’m going with you to the warm store, Roonswent Dover.
Yes he called my name. There aint no way of knowing my name and be a stranger cause I go by Bill Dover to everbodys knowlege. I aint got even no license plate on this truck. You can see ten mile clear out here, cant be no stranger as ever came near your house nor your daddy or mommer that you dont know about. Our part of the county can’t have no stranger moren ten minutes. So it were cold quiet now, believe it, no heater in my truck only a lantern in case of a mountain accident, lucky if theyr matches in that glove apartment. I couldnt get no speed outer her neither and we aint got to the real high passes yet. We was in a holler and then a vale, pinking out to the sides. There was some sun, a bit, so sudden I got brave.