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from Brown Corpus
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The bombproof was a low-ceilinged structure of heavy timbers covered with earth.
It stood some fifty paces from the edge of the bank.
From the outside, it seemed no more than a low drumlin, a lump on the dark earth.
A crude ladder ran down to a wooden floor.
Two slits enabled observers to watch across the river.
The place smelled strongly of rank, fertile earth, rotting wood and urine.
The plank floor was slimed beneath Watson's boots.
At least the Union officer had been decent enough to provide a candle.
There was no place to sit, but Watson walked slowly from the ladder to the window slits and back, stooping slightly to avoid striking his head on the heavy beams.
In the corner was the soldier with the white flag.
He stood stiffly erect, clutching the staff, his body half hidden by the limp cloth.
Watson hardly looked at him.
The man had come floundering aboard the flat-bottomed barge at the last instant, brandishing the flag of truce.
Someone had hauled him over the side, and he had remained silent while they crossed.

1.802 seconds.