“Ah, Cameron,” said the higher officer, reining up, and throwing his right leg across the pommel of his saddle in a most unmilitary way—­ “anything up?  Found a good position for your battery, I hope—­if one place is better than another in a fog.”

“Yes, general,” said the other, with the greater dignity appropriate to his less exalted rank, “my battery is very well placed.  I wish I could say that it is as well commanded.”

“Eh, what’s that?  Ransome?  I think him a fine fellow.  In the army we should be proud of him.”

It was customary for officers of the regular army to speak of it as “the army.”  As the greatest cities are most provincial, so the self-complacency of aristocracies is most frankly plebeian.

“He is too fond of his opinion.  By the way, in order to occupy the hill that he holds I had to extend my line dangerously.  The hill is on my left—­that is to say the left flank of the army.”

“Oh, no, Hart’s brigade is beyond.  It was ordered up from Drytown during the night and directed to hook on to you.  Better go and—­”

The sentence was unfinished:  a lively cannonade had broken out on the left, and both officers, followed by their retinues of aides and orderlies making a great jingle and clank, rode rapidly toward the spot.  But they were soon impeded, for they were compelled by the fog to keep within sight of the line-of-battle, behind which were swarms of men, all in motion across their way.  Everywhere the line was assuming a sharper and harder definition, as the men sprang to arms and the officers, with drawn swords, “dressed” the ranks.  Color-bearers unfurled the flags, buglers blew the “assembly,” hospital attendants appeared with stretchers.  Field officers mounted and sent their impedimenta to the rear in care of negro servants.  Back in the ghostly spaces of the forest could be heard the rustle and murmur of the reserves, pulling themselves together.

Nor was all this preparation vain, for scarcely five minutes had passed since Captain Ransome’s guns had broken the truce of doubt before the whole region was aroar:  the enemy had attacked nearly everywhere.

V

HOW SOUNDS CAN FIGHT SHADOWS

Captain Ransome walked up and down behind his guns, which were firing rapidly but with steadiness.  The gunners worked alertly, but without haste or apparent excitement.  There was really no reason for excitement; it is not much to point a cannon into a fog and fire it.  Anybody can do as much as that.

The men smiled at their noisy work, performing it with a lessening alacrity.  They cast curious regards upon their captain, who had now mounted the banquette of the fortification and was looking across the parapet as if observing the effect of his fire.  But the only visible effect was the substitution of wide, low-lying sheets of smoke for their bulk of fog.  Suddenly out of the obscurity burst a great sound of cheering, which filled the intervals between the reports of the guns with startling distinctness!  To the few with leisure and opportunity to observe, the sound was inexpressibly strange—­so loud, so near, so menacing, yet nothing seen!  The men who had smiled at their work smiled no more, but performed it with a serious and feverish activity.