One night in autumn a few men were gathered about a fire on the slope of a hill.They belonged to a small detachment of Confederate forces and were awaiting orders to march.Their gray uniforms were worn beyond the point of shabbiness.One of the men was heating something in a tin cup over the embers.Two were lying at full length a little distance away, while a fourth was trying to decipher a letter and had drawn close to the light.He had unfastened his collar and a good bit of his flannel shirt front.
"What's that you got around your neck, Ned?" asked one of the men lying in the obscurity.
Ned--or Edmond--mechanically fastened another button of his shirt and did not reply.He went on reading his letter.
"Is it your sweet heart's picture?"
"`Taint no gal's picture," offered the man at the fire.He had removed his tin cup and was engaged in stirring its grimy contents with a small stick."That's a charm; some kind of hoodoo business that one o' them priests gave him to keep him out o' trouble.I know them Cath'lics.That's how come Frenchy got permoted an never got a scratch sence he's been in the ranks.Hey, French! aint I right?" Edmond looked up absently from his letter.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Aint that a charm you got round your neck?""It must be, Nick," returned Edmond with a smile."I don't know how I could have gone through this year and a half without it."The letter had made Edmond heart sick and home sick.He stretched himself on his back and looked straight up at the blinking stars.But he was not thinking of them nor of anything but a certain spring day when the bees were humming in the clematis; when a girl was saying good bye to him.He could see her as she unclasped from her neck the locket which she fastened about his own.It was an old fashioned golden locketbearing miniatures of her father and mother with their names and the date of their marriage.It was her most precious earthly possession.Edmond could feel again the folds of the girl's soft white gown, and see the droop of the angel-sleeves as she circled her fair arms about his neck.Her sweet face, appealing, pathetic, tormented by the pain of parting, appeared before him as vividly as life.He turned over, burying his face in his arm and there he lay, still and motionless.
The profound and treacherous night with its silence and semblance of peace settled upon the camp.He dreamed that the fair Octavie brought him a letter.He had no chair to offer her and was pained and embarrassed at the condition of his garments.He was ashamed of the poor food which comprised the dinner at which he begged her to join them.
He dreamt of a serpent coiling around his throat, and when he strove to grasp it the slimy thing glided away from his clutch.Then his dream was clamor.
"Git your duds! you! Frenchy!" Nick was bellowing in his face.There was what appeared to be a scramble and a rush rather than any regulated movement.The hill side was alive with clatter and motion; with sudden up-springing lights among the pines.In the east the dawn was unfolding out of the darkness.Its glimmer was yet dim in the plain below.
"What's it all about?" wondered a big black bird perched in the top of the tallest tree.He was an old solitary and a wise one, yet he was not wise enough to guess what it was all about.So all day long he kept blinking and wondering.
The noise reached far out over the plain and across the hills and awoke the little babes that were sleeping in their cradles.The smoke curled up toward the sun and shadowed the plain so that the stupid birds thought it was going to rain; but the wise one knew better.
"They are children playing a game," thought he."I shall know more about it if I watch long enough."At the approach of night they had all vanished away with their din and smoke.Then the old bird plumed his feathers.At last he had understood!With a flap of his great, black wings he shot downward,circling toward the plain.
A man was picking his way across the plain.He was dressed in the garb of a clergyman.His mission was to administer the consolations of religion to any of the prostrate figures in whom there might yet linger a spark of life.A negro accompanied him, bearing a bucket of water and a flask of wine.
There were no wounded here; they had been borne away.But the retreat had been hurried and the vultures and the good Samaritans would have to look to the dead.
There was a soldier--a mere boy--lying with his face to the sky.His hands were clutching the sward on either side and his finger nails were stuffed with earth and bits of grass that he had gathered in his despairing grasp upon life.His musket was gone; he was hatless and his face and clothing were begrimed.Around his neck hung a gold chain and locket.The priest, bending over him, unclasped the chain and removed it from the dead soldier's neck.He had grown used to the terrors of war and could face them unflinchingly; but its pathos, someway, always brought the tears to his old, dim eyes.
The angelus was ringing half a mile away.The priest and the negro knelt and murmured together the evening benediction and a prayer for the dead.
