The officer looked as though he would like to argue. He was a West
Point graduate and a full-fledged captain in the regular army. To
him, Wood, in spite of his volunteer rank of colonel, which that day,
owing to the illness of General Young, had placed him in command of a
brigade, was still a doctor. But discipline was strong in him, and
though he looked many things, he rose from his knees and grimly
saluted. But at that moment, without waiting for the permission of
any one, the men leaped out of the trench and ran. It looked as
though they were going to run all the way to the sea, and the sight
was sickening. But they had no intention of running to the sea.
They ran only to the trench forty feet farther down and jumped into
it, and instantly turning, began pumping lead at the enemy. Since
five that morning Wood had been running about on his feet, his
clothes stuck to him with sweat and the mud and water of forded
streams, and as he rose he limped slightly. "My, but I'm tired!" he
said, in a tone of the most acute surprise, and as though that fact
was the only one that was weighing on his mind. He limped over to
the trench in which the men were now busily firing off their rifles
and waved a riding-crop he carried at the trench they had abandoned.
He was standing as Crane had been standing, in silhouette against the
sky-line. "Come back, boys," we heard him shouting. "The other men
can't withdraw, and so you mustn't. It looks bad. Come on, get out
of that!" What made it more amusing was that, although Wood had,
like every one else, discarded his coat and wore a strange uniform of
gray shirt, white riding-breeches, and a cowboy Stetson, with no
insignia of rank, not even straps pinned to his shirt, still the men
instantly accepted his authority. They looked at him on the crest of
the hill, waving his stick persuasively at the grave-like trench at
his feet, and then with a shout scampered back to it.