Their batteries were posted
on both sides of him, and they, too, had found the range. All along the
front hundreds of guns were opening and John hastily thrust portions
that he tore from his handkerchief into his ear, lest he be deafened
forever.
The sight, at first magnificent, now became appalling. The shells came
in showers and the French ranks were torn and mangled. Companies existed
and then they were not. The explosions were like the crash of
thunderbolts, but through it all the French continued to advance. Those
whose knees grew weak beneath them were upborne and carried forward by
the press of their comrades. The French gunners, too, were making
prodigious efforts but with cannon of such long range neither side could
see what its batteries were accomplishing. John was sure, though, that
the great French artillery must be giving as good as it received.
He was conscious that General Vaugirard was still going forward along
the long white road, sweeping his glasses from left to right and from
right to left in a continuous semi-circle, apparently undisturbed,
apparently now without human emotion. He was no figure of romance, but
he was a man, cool and powerful, ready to die with all his men, if death
for them was needed.
Still the invisible hand swept them on, the hand that a million men in
action could not see, but which every one of the million, in his own
way, felt. The crash of the guns on both sides had become fused together
into one roar, so steady and continued so long that the sound seemed
almost normal.
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