A WAR-TIME WOOING
A Story
by
CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U. S. A.
Illustrated
New YorkHarper & Brothers, Franklin SquareCopyright, 1888, by Harper & Brothers.All rights reserved.
"_Colonel Putnam raises to the light of the first lanterna hairy, bushy object._"--[See p. 50.]]
ILLUSTRATIONS.
"COLONEL PUTNAM RAISES TO THE LIGHT OF THE FIRST LANTERN A HAIRY, BUSHY OBJECT" _Frontispiece_
"THE VIRGINIANS KNEW A BRAVE MAN WHEN THEY SAW ONE" _Facing page_ 8
"THE WHOLE TROOP IS HURRIEDLY SADDLING" " 70
"THEN BATHES, WITH COLOGNE, THE WHITE TEMPLES AND SOFT, RIPPLING, SUNNY HAIR" " 90
"BACK COME THOSE DAREDEVILS OF STUART'S" " 110
"A CAVALRY ORDERLY MAKES HIS APPEARANCE AT THE DOOR" " 136
"THEN A YOUNG SOLDIER, IN HIS STAFF UNIFORM, TAKES THREE SPRINGING STEPS, AND IS AT HER SIDE" " 172
"DRAWS FORTH HER PRECIOUS PICTURE AND LAYS IT AT A RIVAL'S FEET" " 194
A WAR-TIME WOOING.
I.
After months of disaster there had come authentic news of victory. AllUnion-loving men drew a long breath of relief when it was certain thatLee had given up the field and fallen back across the Potomac. Thenewsboys, yelling through the crowded streets in town, and the eveningtrains arriving from the neighboring city were besieged by eager buyersof the "extras," giving lists of the killed and wounded. Just at sunsetof this late September day a tall young girl, in deep mourning, stood ata suburban station clinging to the arm of a sad, stern-featured old man.People eyed them with respect and sympathy, not unmixed with ruralcuriosity, for Doctor Warren was known and honored by one and all. A fewmonths agone his only son had been brought home, shot to death at thehead of his regiment, and was laid in his soldier grave in their shadedchurchyard. It was a bitter trial, but the old man bore up sturdily. Hewas an eager patriot; he had no other son to send to the front and washimself too old to serve; it had pleased God to demand his first-born insacrifice upon his country's altar, and though it crushed his heart itcould not kill his loyalty and devotion. His whole soul seemed with thearmy in Virginia; he had nothing but scorn for those who lagged at home,nothing but enthusiastic faith in every man who sought the battle-front,and so it happened that he almost welcomed the indications that told himhis daughter's heart was going fast--given in return for that of asoldier lover.
For a moment it had dazed him. She was still so young--so much a childin his fond eyes--still his sweet-faced, sunny-haired baby Bess. Hecould hardly realize she was eighteen even when with blushing cheeks shecame to show him the photograph of a manly, gallant-looking youngsoldier in the uniform of a lieutenant of infantry. Strange as the storymay seem to-day, there was at the time nothing very surprising about itsmost salient feature--she and her hero had never met.
With other girls she had joined a "Soldiers' Aid Society;" had wroughtwith devoted though misguided diligence in the manufacture of"Havelocks" that were bearers of much sentiment but no especial benefitto the recipients at the front; and like many of her companions she hadslipped her name and address into one of these soon-discarded capcovers. As luck would have it, their package of "Havelocks,""housewives," needle-cases, mittens (with trigger finger duly providedfor), ear-muffs, wristlets, knitted socks, and such things, worn by the"boys" their first winter in Virginia, but discarded for the regulationoutfit thereafter, fell to the lot of the--th Massachusetts Infantry,and a courteous letter from the adjutant told of its distribution.Bessie Warren was secretary of the society, and the secretary wasinstructed to write to the adjutant and say how gratified they were tofind their efforts so kindly appreciated. More than one of the girlswished that _she_ were secretary just then, and all of them hoped theadjutant would answer. He did, and sent, moreover, a photographic groupof several officers taken at regimental headquarters. Each figure wasnumbered, and on the back was an explanation setting forth the names ofthe officers, the item which each had received as his share, and, whereit was known, the name of the fair manufacturer. The really usefulitems, it would seem, had been handed to the enlisted men, and theofficers had reserved for themselves only such articles as experiencehad proved to be of no practical value. The six in the picture had allchosen "Havelocks," and opposite the name of Bessie Warren was that ofSecond Lieutenant Paul Revere Abbot. Reference to the "group" againdeveloped the fact that Mr. Abbot was decidedly the handsomest soldierof the party--tall, slender, youthful, with clear-cut and resolutefeatures and a decidedly firm, solid look about him that wasdistinguishable in a group of decidedly distinguished-looking men. Therefollowed much laughing talk and speculation and theory among the girls,but the secretary was instructed to write another letter of thanks, anddid so very charmingly, and mention was made of the circumstance thatseveral of their number had brothers or cousins at the front. Then someof the society had happened, too, to have a photograph taken in thequaint uniform, with cap and apron, which they had worn at a recentlygiven "Soldiers' Fair," and one of their number--not Miss Warren--senta copy of this to the camp of the--th Massachusetts. Central figure inthis group was Bessie Warren, unquestionably the loveliest girl amongthem all, and one day there came to her a single photograph, a stillhandsomer picture of Mr. Paul Revere Abbot, and a letter in a handsomewhat stiff and cramped, in which the writer apologized for theappearance of the scrawl, explained that his hand had been injured whilepractising fencing with a comrade, but that having seen her picture inthe group he could not but congratulate himself on having received a"Havelock" from hands so fair, could not resist the impulse to write andpersonally thank her, and then to inquire if she was a sister of GuthrieWarren, whom he had known and looked up to at Harvard as a "soph" looksup to a senior; and he enclosed his picture, which would perhaps recallhim to Guthrie's mind.
Her mother had been dead many years, and Bessie showed this letter toher father, and with his full consent and with much sisterly pride wrotethat Guthrie was indeed her brother; that he, too, had taken up arms forhis country and was at the front with his regiment, though nowhere neartheir friends of the--th Massachusetts (who were watching the fords ofthe Potomac up near Edward's Ferry), and that she had sent thephotograph to him.
One letter seemed to lead to another, and those from the Potomacspeedily became very interesting, especially when the papers mentionedhow gallantly Lieutenant Paul Abbot had behaved at Ball's Bluff and howhard he had tried to save his colonel, who was taken prisoner. Guthriereturned the photograph to Bess, with a letter which the doctor readattentively. He remembered Paul Abbot as being a leader in the youngerset at Harvard, and was delighted to hear of him "under the colors,"where every Union-loving man should be--where, as he recalled him, heknew Abbot must be, for he belonged to one of the oldest and bestfamilies in all Massachusetts; he was a gentleman born and bred, andwould make a name for himself in this war. Guthrie only wished therewere some of that stamp in his own regiment, but he feared that therewere few who had the stuff of which the Abbots were made--there were toomany ward politicians. "But I've cast my lot with it and shall see itthrough," wrote Guthrie. Poor fellow! poor father! poor loving-heartedBessie! The first volley from the crouching gray ranks in those dimwoods back of Seven Pines sent the ward politicians in mad rush to therear, and when Guthrie Warren sprang for the colors, and waved them highin air, and shouted for the men to rally and follow him, it was all invain--a
ll as vain as the effort to stop the firing made by the chivalricVirginia colonel, who leaped forward, with a few daring men at his back,to capture the resolute Yankee and his precious flag. They got them; butthe life-blood was welling from the hero's breast as they raised himgently from the silken folds. The Virginians knew a brave man when theysaw one, and they carried him tenderly into their lines and wrote hislast messages, and that night they sent the honored body back to hisbrigade, and so the stricken father found and brought home all that wasleft of the gallant boy in whom his hopes were centred.
For a time Bessie's letters languished after this, though she hadwritten nearly every week during the winter and early spring. LieutenantAbbot, on the other hand, appeared to redouble his deep interest. Hisletters were full of sympathy--of a tenderness that seemed to be withdifficulty repressed. She read these to her mourning father--they wereso full of sorrow for the bitter loss that had befallen them, so richwith soldierly sentiment and with appreciation of Guthrie's heroiccharacter and death, so welcome with reminiscence of him. Not that heand Abbot had met on the Peninsula--it was the unhappy lot of theMassachusetts--th to be held with McDowell's corps in front ofWashington while their comrades were doing sharp, soldierly work downalong the Chickahominy. But even where they were, said these letters,men talked by the hour of how Guthrie Warren had died at SevenPines--how daring Phil Kearney himself had ridden up and held forth--
"The one hand still left,"
and asked him his name just before the final advance on the thicket. Oneletter contained a copy of some soldierly verses her Massachusettscorrespondent had written--"Warren's Death at Seven Pines"--in which heplaced him peer with Warren who fell at Bunker Hill. The verses thrilledthrough her heart and soul and brought a storm of tears--tears ofmingled pride and love and hopeless sorrow from her aging father'seyes. No wonder she soon began to write more frequently. Theseletters from Virginia were the greatest joy her father had, she toldherself, and though she wrote through a mist that blurred the page, shesoon grew conscious of a strange, shy sense of comfort, of a thrillinglittle spring of glad emotion, of tender, shrinking, sensitive delight,and by the time the hot summer was waning and August was at hand thisunseen soldier, who had only shared her thoughts before, took completeand utter control. Why tell the old, old story in its every stage? Itwas with a new, wild fear at heart she heard of Stonewall Jackson's leapfor the Rapidan, of the grapple at Cedar Mountain where theMassachusetts men fought sternly and met with cruel loss. Her fatherraged with anxiety when the news came of the withdrawal from thePeninsula, the triumphant rush of Lee and Longstreet on Jackson's trail,of the ill-starred but heroic struggle made by Pope along the banks ofBull Run. A few days and nights of dread suspense and then came tidingsthat Lee was across the Potomac and McClellan marching to meet him. Twomore letters reached her from the marching--th Massachusetts, and atelegram from Washington telling her where to write, and saying, "Allwell so far as I am concerned," at which the doctor shook his head--itsounded so selfish at such a time; it grated on his patriotic ear, andit wasn't such as he thought an Abbot ought to telegraph. But then hewas hurried; they probably only let him fall out of ranks a moment asthey marched through Washington. And then the newspapers began to teemwith details of the fierce battles of the last three days of August, andhe forgave him and fathomed the secret in his daughter's breast as shestood breathing very quickly, her cheek flushing, her eyes filling, andlistening while he read how Lieutenant Abbot had led the charge ofthe--th Massachusetts and seized the battle-flag of one of Starke'sbrigades at that bristling parapet--the old, unfinished railway grade tothe north of Groveton. Neither father nor daughter uttered a word uponthe subject. The old man simply opened his arms and took her to hisheart, where, overcome with emotion, mingling pride and grief andanxiety and tender, budding love, she burst into tears and hid herburning face.
"_The Virginians knew a brave man when they saw one._"]
Then came the news of fierce fighting at South Mountain, where the--thMassachusetts was prominent; then of the Antietam, where twice itcharged through that fearful stretch of cornfield and had but a handfulleft to guard the riddled colors when nightfall came, and then--silenceand suspense. No letters, no news--nothing.
Her white, wan face and pleading eyes were too much for the father tosee. Though no formal offer of marriage had been made, though the word"love" had hardly been written in those glowing letters, he reasonedrightly that love alone could prompt a man to write day after day in allthe excitements and vicissitudes of stirring campaign. As for therest--was he not an Abbot? Did not Guthrie know and honor him? Was henot a gallant officer as well as a thoroughbred gentleman? No time forwooing now! That would come with peace. He had even given his consentwhen she blushingly asked him if she might--"Well, _there!_ read ityourself," she said, putting the closely written page into his hands. Itwas an eager plea for her picture--and the photograph was sent. He chosethe one himself, a dainty "vignette" on card, for it reminded him of themother who was gone. It was fitting, he told himself, that hisdaughter--her sainted mother's image, Guthrie's sister--should love agallant soldier. He gloried in the accounts of Paul Abbot's bravery, andlonged to meet him and take him by the hand. The time would come. Hecould wait and watch over the little girl who was drawing them together.He asked no questions. It would all be right.
And now they stood together at the station waiting for the evening carsand the latest news from the front. It lacked but a few minutes of traintime when, with sad and sympathetic face, the station-agent approached,a fateful brown envelope in his hand. The doctor turned quickly at hisdaughter's gasping exclamation,
"_Papa!_ Mr. Hardy has a telegram!"
Despite every effort his hand and lip trembled violently as he took itand tore it open. It was brief enough--an answer to his repeateddespatches to the War Department.
"Lieutenant Paul R. Abbot, dangerously wounded, is at field hospitalnear Frederick, Maryland."
The doctor turned to her pale, pleading face, tears welling in his eyes.
"Be brave, my little girl," he murmured, brokenly. "He is wounded, butwe can go to him at once."
Nearly sunset again, and the South Mountain is throwing its dark shadowclear across the Monocacy. The day has been warm, cloudless, beautiful,and, now that evening is approaching, the sentries begin to saunter outfrom the deeper shade that has lured them during the afternoon and togive a more soldierly tone to the picture. There are not many of them,to be sure, and this is evidently the encampment of no large command oftroops, despite the number of big white tents pitched in the orchard,and the score of white-topped army-wagons, the half-dozen yellowambulances, and the scraggy lot of mules in the pasture-lot across thedusty highway. The stream is close at hand, only a stone's-throw fromthe picturesque old farmhouse, and the animated talk among the groups ofbathers has that peculiarly blasphemous flavor which seems inseparablefrom the average teamster. That the camp is under military tutelage isapparent from the fact that a tall young man in the loose, ill-fittingblue fatigue-dress of our volunteers, with war-worn belts and abusiness-like look to the long "Springfield" over his shoulder, comesstriding down to the bank and shouts forthwith,
"You fellows are making too much noise there, and the doctor wants youto dry up."
"Tell him to send us some towels, then," growls one of the number, ablack-browed, surly-looking fellow with ponderous, bent shoulders and aslouching mien. Some of his companions titter encouragingly, others aresilent. The sergeant of the guard flushes angrily and turns on thespeaker.
"You know very well what I mean, Rix. I'm using your own slang inspeaking to you because you wouldn't comprehend decent language. Itisn't the first time you've been warned not to make such a row hereclose to a lot of wounded and dying men. Now I mean business. Quit it oryou'll get into trouble."
"What authority have _you_ got, I'd like to know," is the sneeringrejoinder. "You're nothing but a hospital guard, and have no businessinterfering with us. I ain't under no doctor's orders.
You go back toyour stiffs and leave live men alone."
The sergeant is about to speak, when the bathers, glancing up at thebank, see him suddenly face to his left and raise his hand to hisshouldered rifle in salute. The next instant a tall young officer,leaning heavily on a cane and with his sword-arm in a sling, appears atthe sergeant's side.
"Who is the man who questions your authority?" he asks, in a voicesingularly calm and deliberate.
There is a moment's awkward silence. The sergeant has the reluctance ofhis class to getting a fellow-soldier into a scrape. The half-dressedbathers stand uncomfortably about the shore and look blankly from one toanother. The man addressed as Rix is busily occupied in pulling on apair of soldier brogans, and tying, with great deliberation, the leatherstrings.
Casting his clear eyes over the group, as he steps forward to the edge,the young officer speaks again:
"You're here, are you, Rix. That leaves little doubt as to the man evenif I were not sure of the voice. I could hear your brutal swearing, sir,loud over the prayers the chaplain was saying for the dead. Have you nosense of decency at all?"
"How'n hell did I know there was any prayin' going on?" muttered Rix,bending his scowling brows down over his shoe and tugging savagely atthe string.
"What was that remark, Rix?" asks the lieutenant, his grasp tighteningon the stick.
No answer.
"Rix, drop that shoestring; stand attention, and look at me," says theofficer, very quietly, but with setting teeth that no man fails to note.Rix slowly and sullenly obeys.
"What was the remark you made just now?" is again the question.
"I said I didn't know they were praying," growls Rix, finding he has toface the music.
"That sounds very little like your words, but--let it go. You knew verywell that men were dying here right within earshot when you were makingthe air blue with blasphemy, and when better men were reverently silent.It is the third time you have been reprimanded in a week. I shall see toit that you are sent back to your company forthwith."
"Not while Lieutenant Hollins is quartermaster you won't," is theinsubordinate reply, and even the teamsters look scared as they glancefrom the scowling, hanging face of Rix to the clear-cut features of theofficer, and mark the change that sweeps over the latter. His eyes seemto flash fire, and his pallid face--thin with suffering and loss ofblood--flushes despite his physical weakness. His handsome mouth setslike a steel-trap.
"Sergeant, get two of your men and put that fellow under guard," heorders. "Stay where you are, Rix, until they come for you." His voice islow and stern; he does not condescend to raise it for such occasion,though there is a something about it that tells the soldier-ear it canring with command where ring is needed.
"I'd like to know what I've done," mutters Rix, angrily kicking at thepebbles at his feet.
No answer. The lieutenant has walked back a pace and has seatedhimself on a little bench. Another officer--a gray-haired anddistinguished-looking man, with silver eagles on his shoulders--israpidly nearing him and reaches the bank just in time to catch the nextwords. He could have heard them farther back, for Rix is in a fury now,and shouts aloud:
"If you knew your own interests--knew half that I know about youraffairs, Lieutenant Abbot--you'd think twice before you ordered me underarrest."
The lieutenant half starts from the bench; but his self-control isstrong.
"You are simply adding to your insubordination, sir," he says, coldly."Take your prisoner, sergeant. You men are all witnesses to thislanguage."
And muttering much to himself, Teamster Rix is marched slowly away,leaving an audience somewhat mystified. The colonel stands looking afterhim with a puzzled and astonished face; the men begin slowly to edgeaway, and then Mr. Abbot wearily rises and--again he flushes red when hefinds his superior officer facing him at not three paces distance.
"What on earth does that mean, Abbot?" asks the colonel. "Who is thatman?"
"One of the regimental teamsters, sir. He came here with the wounded,and there appears to have been no opportunity of sending him back nowthat the regiment is over in the Shenandoah. At all events, he has beenallowed to loaf around here for some time, and you probably heard himswearing."
"I did; that's what brought me out of the house. But what does he meanby threatening you?"
"I have no idea, sir; or, rather, I have an idea, but the matter is ofno consequence whatever, and only characteristic of the man. He is ascoundrel, I suspect, and I wonder that Hollins has kept him so long."
"Do you know that Hollins hasn't turned up yet?"
"So I heard this morning, colonel, and yet you saw him the night of thebattle, did you not?"
"Not the night after, but the night before. We left him with the wagonswhen we marched to the ford. I was knocked off my horse about one in theafternoon, just north of the cornfield, and they got me back to thewagons with this left shoulder all out of shape--collar-bone broken; andhe wasn't there then, and hadn't been seen since daybreak. Somebody saidhe was so cut up when you were hit at the Gap. I didn't know you weresuch friends."
"Well, we've known each other a long time--were together at Harvard andmoved in the same set; but there was never any intimacy, colonel."
"I see, I see," says the older officer, reflectively. "He was a strangerto me when I joined the regiment and found him quartermaster. He wasColonel Raymond's choice, and you know that in succeeding to his placeI preferred to make no changes. But I say to you now that I wish I had.Hollins has failed to come up to the standard as a campaignquartermaster, and the men have suffered through his neglect more thanonce. Then he stayed behind when we marched through Washington--a thinghe never satisfactorily explained to me--and I had serious thoughts ofrelieving him at Frederick and appointing you to act in his stead. Nowthe fortune of war has settled both questions. Hollins is missing, andyou are a captain or will be within the month. Have you heard fromWendell?"
"His arm is gone, sir; amputated above the elbow; and he has decided toresign. Foster commands the company, but I shall go forward just as soonas the doctor will let me."
"We'll go together. He says I can stand the ride in ten days or twoweeks, but neither of your wounds has healed yet. How's the leg? Thatmust have been a narrow squeak."
"No bones were touched, sir. It was only that I lost so much blood fromthe two. It was the major who reported me to you as dangerously wounded,was it not?"
"Yes; but when he left you there seemed to be very little chance. Youwere senseless and exhausted, and with two rifle bullets through youwhat was to be expected? He couldn't tell that they happened to graze noartery, and the surgeon was too busy elsewhere."
"It gave them a scare at home," said Abbot, smiling; "and my father andsister were on the point of starting for Washington when I managed tosend word to them that the wounds were slight. I want to get back to theregiment before they find out that they were comparatively serious,because the family will be importuning the Secretary of War to send mehome on leave."
"And any man of your age, with such a home, and a sweetheart, ought tobe eager to go. Why not go, Abbot? There will be no more fighting formonths now; McClellan has let them slip. You could have a fortnight inBoston as well as not, and wear your captain's bars for the first time.I fancy I know how proud Miss Winthrop would be to sew them on for you."
The colonel is leaning against the trunk of a spreading oak-tree as hespeaks. The sun is down, and twilight closing around them. Mr. Abbot,who had somewhat wearily reseated himself on the rude wooden bench amoment before, has turned gradually away from the speaker during thesewords, and is gazing down the beautiful valley. Lights are beginning totwinkle here and there in the distance, and the gleam of one or two tinyfires tells of other camps not far away. A dim mist of dust is risingfrom the highroad close to the stream, and a quaint old Marylandcabriolet, drawn by a venerable gray horse, is slowly coming around thebend. The soldiers grouped about the gateway, back at the farmhouse,turn and look curiously towards the hollow-sou
nding hoof-beats, butneither the colonel nor his junior officer seems to notice them. Abbot'sthoughts are evidently far away, and he makes no reply. The surgeon whosanctions his return to field duty yet a while would, to allappearances, be guilty of a professional blunder. The lieutenant's faceis pale and thin; his hand looks very fragile and fearfully white incontrast with the bronze of his cheek. He leans his head upon his handas he gazes away into the distance, and the colonel stands attentivelyregarding him. He recalls the young fellow's gallant and spiritedconduct at Manassas and South Mountain; his devotion to his soldier dutysince the day he first "reported." If ever an officer deserved a monthat home, in which to recuperate from the shock of painful wounds, surelythat officer was Abbot. The colonel well knows with what pride andblessing his revered old father would welcome his coming--the joy itwould bring to the household at his home. It is an open secret, too,that he is engaged to Genevieve Winthrop, and surely a man must want tosee the lady of his love. He well remembers how she came with otherladies to attend the presentation of colors to the regiment, and howhandsome and distinguished a woman she looked. The Common was throngedwith Boston's "oldest and best" that day, and Colonel Raymond's speechof acceptance made eloquent reference to the fact that of all the grandold names that had been prominent in the colonial history of thecommonwealth not one was absent from the muster-roll of the regiment itwas his high honor to command. The Abbots and Winthrops had a historycoeval with that of the colony, and were long and intimately acquainted.When, therefore, it was rumored that Genevieve Winthrop was to marryPaul Abbot "as soon as the war was over," people simply took it as amatter of course--they had been engaged ever since they were trundledside by side in the primitive baby-carriages of the earliest forties.This reflection leads the colonel to the realization of the fact thatthey must be very much of an age. Indeed, had he not heard it whisperedthat Miss Winthrop was the senior by nearly a year? Abbot looked young,almost boyish, when he was first commissioned in May of '61, but he hadaged rapidly, and was greatly changed. He had not shaved since June, anda beard of four months' growth had covered his face. There are lines inhis forehead, too, that one could not detect a year before. Why shouldnot the young fellow have a few weeks' leave, thinks the colonel. Theregiment is now in camp over beyond Harper's Ferry, greatly diminishedin numbers and waiting for its promised recruits. It is evident thatMcClellan has no intention of attacking Lee again; he is content withhaving persuaded him to retire from Maryland. Nothing will be so apt tobuild up the strength and spirits of the new captain as to send him hometo be lionized and petted as he deserves to be. Doubtless all thelanguor and sadness the colonel has noted in him of late is but theoutward and visible sign of a longing for home which he is ashamed toconfess.
"Abbot," he says again, suddenly and abruptly, "I'm going back toFrederick this evening as soon as the medical director is ready, and I'mgoing to get him to give you a certificate on which to base applicationfor a month's leave Don't say no. I understand your scruples, but go youshall. You richly deserve it and will be all the better for it. Now yourpeople won't have to be importuning the War Department; the leave shallcome from this end of the line."
The lieutenant seems about to turn again as though to thank hiscommander when there comes an interruption--the voice of the sergeant ofthe guard close at hand. He holds forth a card; salutes, and says:
"A gentleman inquiring for Colonel Putnam."
And the gentleman is but a step or two behind--an aging man with silveryhair and beard, with lines of sorrow in his refined and scholarly face,and fatigue and anxiety easily discernible in his bent figure--agentleman evidently, and the colonel turns courteously to greet him.
"Doctor Warren!" he says, interrogatively, as he holds forth his hand.
"Yes, colonel, they told me you were about going back to Frederick, andI desired to see you at once. I am greatly interested in a youngofficer of your regiment who is here, wounded; he is a college friend ofmy only son's, sir--Guthrie Warren, killed at Seven Pines." The colonellifts his forage cap with one hand while the other more tightly claspsthat of the older man. "I hear that the reports were exaggerated andthat he is able to be about. It is Lieutenant Abbot."
"Judge for yourself, doctor," is the smiling reply. "Here he sits."
With an eager light in his eyes the old gentleman steps forward towardsAbbot, who is slowly rising from the bench. He, too, courteously raiseshis forage cap. In a moment both the doctor's hands have clasped thethin, white hand that leans so heavily on the stick.
"My dear young friend!" he says. "My gallant boy! Thank God it is notwhat we feared!" and his eyes are filling, his lip is tremblingpainfully.
"You are very kind, sir," says Abbot, vaguely, "I am doing quite well."Then he pauses. There is such yearning and--something he cannot fathomin the old man's face. He feels that he is expected to say stillmore--that this is not the welcome looked for. "I beg a thousandpardons, sir, perhaps I did not catch the name aright. Did you sayDoctor Warren?"
"Certainly, B--Guthrie Warren's father--you remember?" and the look inthe sad old eyes is one of strange perplexity. "I cannot thank you halfenough for all you have written of my boy."
And still there is no sign of recognition in Abbot's face. He iscourteous, sympathetic, but it is all too evident that there issomething grievously lacking.
"I fear there is some mistake," he gently says; "I have no recollectionof knowing or writing of any one of that name."
"Mistake! Good God! How can there be?" is the gasping response. Thetired old eyes are ablaze with grief, bewilderment, and dreadcommingled. "Surely this is Lieutenant Paul Revere Abbot--of the--thMassachusetts."
"It certainly is, doctor, but--"
"It surely is your photograph we have: surely you wrote to--to us allthis last year--letter after letter about my boy--my Guthrie."
There is an instant of silence that is almost agonizing. The colonelstands like one in a state of shock. The old doctor, trembling fromhead to foot, looks with almost piteous entreaty; with anguish andincredulity, and half-awakened wrath, into the pale and distressedfeatures of the young soldier.
"I bitterly grieve to have to tell you, sir," is the sorrowful answer,"but I know no such name. I have written no such letters."
Another instant, and the old man has dropped heavily upon the bench, andburied his face in his arms. But for the colonel he might have fallenprone to earth.