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Beginning at Carrollton Gardens, they said, then in the flowery precincts of Callender House, later in that death-swept garden on Vicksburg's inland bluffs, and now in this one, of Flora's, a garden yet, peaceful and fragrant, though no part of its burnt house save the chimneys had stood in air these three years and a half, the old hero "Yes," chimed Miranda to whoever was saying it
It has been terrible, yet glorious, to live through such a time, even for us who have not passed through the great experience of battle, who have not watched and taken part in the heroic charge of our infantry across death-swept meadows, or heard with our ears the thunder of the great guns or felt the earth shake under the tread of marching legions.
A scattered remnant of the attackers ran back, some whole and some hurt, thousands crawled away wounded, to reach the safe shelter of their support trenches, some to be struck down by the shells that still kept pounding down upon the death-swept field. The counter-attack was smashed hopelessly and horribly smashed.
Early in the morning of August 14, 1914, though its cupolas were battered in and shells rained upon the interior, the commander refused an offer of surrender. A little later the concrete inner chamber walls fell in. The commander of Boncelles, having exhausted his defensive, hoisted the white flag. He had held out for eleven days in a veritable death-swept inferno.
Months afterwards, on the death-swept peninsula, Hawk and I became fast friends. The "bad man" of the ambulance became the most useful, most faithful, in my section. We went everywhere together like "Horace and Holly" of Rider Haggard fame: he the great, strong man, and I the young artist scout. If Hawk was out of camp, you could bet I was also and vice-versa. Of Hawk more anon.
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