CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
          The youth went slowly toward the fire indicated by his
     departed friend. As he reeled, he bethought him of the welcome his
     comrades would give him. He had a conviction that he would soon
     feel in his sore heart the barbed missiles of ridicule. He had no
     strength to invent a tale; he would be a soft target.
          He made vague plans to go off into the deeper darkness and
     hide, but they were all destroyed by the voices of exhaustion and
     pain from his body. His ailments, clamoring, forced him to seek the
     place of food and rest, at whatever cost.
          He swung unsteadily toward the fire. He could see the forms of
     men throwing black shadows in the red light, and as he went nearer
     it became known to him in some way that the ground was strewn with
     sleeping men.
          Of a sudden he confronted a black and monstrous figure. A
     rifle barrel caught some glinting beams. "Halt! halt!" He was
     dismayed for a moment, but he presently thought that he recognized
     the nervous voice. As he stood tottering before the rifle barrel,
     he called out: "Why, hello, Wilson, you---you here?"
          The rifle was lowered to a position of caution and the loud
     soldier came slowly forward. He peered into the youth's face. "That
     you, Henry?"
          "Yes it's---it's me. "
          "Well, well, old boy," said the other, "by ginger, I'm glad to
     see you! I give you up for a goner. I thought you was dead sure
     enough." There was husky emotion in his voice.
          The youth found that now he could barely stand upon his feet.
     There was a sudden sinking of his forces. He thought he must hasten
     to produce his tale to protect him from the missiles already at the
     lips of his redoubtable comrades. So, staggering before the loud
     soldier, he began: "Yes, yes. I've---I've had an awful time. I've
     been all over. Way over on the right. Terrible fighting over there.
     I had an awful time. I got separated from the regiment. Over on the
     right, I got shot. In the head. I never see such fighting. Awful
     time. I don't see how I could have got separated from the regiment.
     I got shot, too."
          His friend had stepped forward quickly. "What? Got shot? Why
     didn't you say so first? Poor old boy, we must---hold on a minute;
     what am I doing? I'll call Simpson."
          Another figure at that moment loomed in the gloom. They could
     see that it was the corporal. "Who you talking to, Wilson?" he
     demanded. His voice was anger-toned. "Who you talking to? You the
     darndest sentinel---why---hello, Henry, you here? Why, I thought
     you was dead four hours ago! Great Jerusalem, they keep turning up
     every ten minutes or so! We thought we'd lost forty-two men by
     straight count, but if they keep on a-coming this way, we'll get
     the company all back by morning yet. Where was you?"
          "Over on the right. I got separated"---began the youth with
     considerable glibness.
          But his friend had interrupted hastily. "Yes, and he got shot
     in the head and he's in a fix, and we must see to him right away."
     He rested his rifle in the hollow of his left arm and his right
     around the youth's shoulder.
          "Gee, it must hurt like thunder!" he said.
          The youth leaned heavily upon his friend. "Yes, it hurts---
     hurts a good deal," he replied. There was a faltering in his voice.
          "Oh," said the corporal. He linked his arm in the youth's and
     drew him forward. "Come on, Henry. I'll take care of you."
          As they went on together the loud private called out after
     them: "Put him to sleep in my blanket, Simpson. And---hold on a
     minute---here's my canteen. It's full of coffee. Look at his head
     by the  fire and  see how it looks. Maybe it's a pretty bad one.
     When I get relieved in a couple of minutes, I'll be over and see to
     him."
          The youth's senses were so deadened that his friend's voice
     sounded from afar and he could scarcely feel the pressure of the
     corporal's arm. He submitted passively to the latter's directing
     strength. His head was in the old manner hanging forward upon his
     breast. His knees wobbled.
          The corporal led him into the glare of the fire. "Now, Henry,"
     he said, "let's have look at your old head."
          The youth sat down obediently and the corporal, laying aside
     his rifle, began to fumble in the bushy hair of his comrade. He was
     obliged to turn the other's head so that the full flush of the fire
     light would beam upon it. He puckered his mouth with a critical
     air. He drew back his lips and whistled through his teeth when his
     fingers came in contact with the splashed blood and the rare wound.
          "Ah, here we are!" he said. He awkwardly made further
     investigations. "Just as I thought," he added, presently. "You've
     been grazed by a ball. It's raised a queer lump just as if some
     fellow had lammed you on the head with a club. It stopped a-
     bleeding long time ago. The most about it is that in the  morning
     you'll feel that a number ten hat wouldn't fit you. And your head
     will be all hot up and feel as dry as burnt pork. And you may get
     a lot of other sicknesses, too, by morning. You can't never tell.
     Still, I don't much think so. It's just a damned good belt on the
     head, and nothing more. Now, you just sit here and don't move,
     while I go rout out the relief. Then I'll send Wilson to take care
     of you."
          The corporal went away. The youth remained on the ground like
     a parcel. He stared with a vacant look into the fire.
          After a time he aroused, for some part, and the things about
     him began to take form. He saw that the ground in the deep shadows
     was cluttered with men, sprawling in every conceivable posture.
     Glancing narrowly into the more distant darkness, he caught
     occasional glimpses of visages that loomed pallid and ghostly, lit
     with a phosphorescent glow. These faces expressed in their lines
     the deep stupor of the tired soldiers. They made them appear like
     men drunk with wine. This bit of forest might have appeared to an
     ethereal wanderer as a scene of the result of some frightful
     debauch.
          On the other side of the fire the youth observed an officer
     asleep, seated bolt upright, with his back against a tree. There
     was something perilous in his position. Badgered by dreams,
     perhaps, he swayed with little bounces and starts, like an old,
     toddy-stricken grandfather in a chimney corner. Dust and stains
     were upon his face. His lower jaw hung down as if lacking strength
     to assume its normal position. He was the picture of an exhausted
     soldier after a feast of war.
          He had evidently gone to sleep with his sword in his arms.
     These two had slumbered in an embrace, but the weapon had been
     allowed in time to fall unheeded to the ground. The brass-mounted
     hilt lay in contact with some parts of the fire.
          Within the gleam of rose and orange light from the burning
     sticks were other soldiers, snoring and heaving, or lying
     death-like in slumber. A few pairs of legs were stuck forth, rigid
     and straight. The shoes displayed the mud or dust of marches and
     bits of rounded trousers, protruding from the blankets, showed
     rents and tears from hurried pitchings through the dense brambles.
          The fire crackled musically. From it swelled light smoke.
     Overhead the foliage moved softly. The leaves, with their faces
     turned toward the blaze, were colored shifting hues of silver,
     often edged with red. Far off to the right, through a window in the
     forest, could be seen a handful of stars lying, like glittering
     pebbles, on the black level of the night.
          Occasionally, in this low-arched hall, a soldier would arouse
     and turn his body to a new position, the experience of his sleep
     having taught him of uneven and objectionable places upon the
     ground under him. Or, perhaps, he would lift himself to a sitting
     posture, blink at the fire for an unintelligent moment, throw a
     swift glance at his prostrate companion, and then cuddle down again
     with a grunt of sleepy content.
          The youth sat in a forlorn heap until his friend, the loud
     young soldier, came, swinging two canteens by their light strings.
     "Well, now, Henry, old boy," said the latter, "we'll have you fixed
     up in just about a minute."
          He had the bustling ways of an amateur nurse. He fussed around
     the fire and stirred the sticks to brilliant exertions. He made his
     patient drink largely from the canteen that contained the coffee.
     It was to the youth a delicious draught. He tilted his head afar
     back and held the canteen long to his lips. The cool mixture went
     caressingly down his blistered throat. Having finished he sighed
     with comfortable delight.
          The loud young soldier watched his comrade with an air of
     satisfaction. He later produced an extensive handkerchief from his
     pocket. He folded it into a manner of bandage and soused water from
     the other canteen upon the middle of it. This crude arrangement he
     bound over the youth's head, tying the ends in a queer knot at the
     back of the neck.
          "There," he said, moving off and surveying his deed, "You look
     like the devil, but I bet you feel better. "
          The youth contemplated his friend with grateful eyes. Upon his
     aching and swelling head the cold cloth was like a tender woman's
     hand.
          "You don't holler nor say nothing," remarked his friend
     approvingly. "I know I'm a blacksmith at taking care of sick folks,
     and you never squeaked. Your a good one, Henry. Most men would have
     been in the hospital long ago. A shot in the head ain't fooling
     business."
          The youth made no reply, but began to fumble with the buttons
     of his jacket.
          "Well, come, now," continued his friend, "come on. I must put
     you to bed and see that you get a good night's rest."
          The other got carefully erect, and the loud young soldier led
     him among the sleeping forms lying in groups and rows. Presently he
     stooped and picked up his blankets. He spread the rubber one upon
     the ground and placed the woolen one about the youth's shoulders.
          "There now," he said, "lie down and get some sleep."
          The youth, with his manner of dog-like obedience, got
     carefully down like a crone stooping. He stretched out with a
     murmur of relief and comfort. The ground felt like the softest
     couch.
          But of a sudden he ejaculated: "Hold on a minute! Where you
     going to sleep?"
          His friend waved his hand impatiently. "Right down there by
     you."
          "Well, but hold on a minute," continued the youth. "What you
     going to sleep in? I've got your---"
          The loud young soldier snarled: "Shut up and go on to sleep.
     Don't be making a damned fool of yourself," he said severely.
          After the reproof the youth said no more. An exquisite
     drowsiness had spread through him. The warm comfort of the blanket
     enveloped him and made a gentle languor. His head fell forward on
     his crooked arm and his weighted lids went slowly down over his
     eyes. Hearing a splatter of musketry from the distance, he wondered
     indifferently if those men sometimes slept. He gave a long sigh,
     snuggled down into his blanket, and in a moment was like his
     comrades.