A War-Time Wooing | Page 6

didn't know you
were such friends."
"Well, we've known each other a long time--were together at Harvard
and moved in the same set; but there was never any intimacy, colonel."
"I see, I see," says the older officer, reflectively. "He was a stranger to
me when I joined the regiment and found him quartermaster. He was
Colonel Raymond's choice, and you know that in succeeding to his
place I 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 campaign
quartermaster, and the men have suffered through his neglect more than

once. Then he stayed behind when we marched through Washington--a
thing he never satisfactorily explained to me--and I had serious
thoughts of relieving him at Frederick and appointing you to act in his
stead. Now the fortune of war has settled both questions. Hollins is
missing, and you are a captain or will be within the month. Have you
heard from Wendell?"
"His arm is gone, sir; amputated above the elbow; and he has decided
to resign. Foster commands the company, but I shall go forward just as
soon as the doctor will let me."
"We'll go together. He says I can stand the ride in ten days or two
weeks, but neither of your wounds has healed yet. How's the leg? That
must have been a narrow squeak."
"No bones were touched, sir. It was only that I lost so much blood from
the 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. You
were senseless and exhausted, and with two rifle bullets through you
what was to be expected? He couldn't tell that they happened to graze
no artery, and the surgeon was too busy elsewhere."
"It gave them a scare at home," said Abbot, smiling; "and my father
and sister were on the point of starting for Washington when I managed
to send word to them that the wounds were slight. I want to get back to
the regiment before they find out that they were comparatively serious,
because the family will be importuning the Secretary of War to send
me home on leave."
"And any man of your age, with such a home, and a sweetheart, ought
to be eager to go. Why not go, Abbot? There will be no more fighting
for months now; McClellan has let them slip. You could have a
fortnight in Boston 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 he
speaks. The sun is down, and twilight closing around them. Mr. Abbot,
who had somewhat wearily reseated himself on the rude wooden bench
a moment before, has turned gradually away from the speaker during
these words, and is gazing down the beautiful valley. Lights are
beginning to twinkle here and there in the distance, and the gleam of
one or two tiny fires tells of other camps not far away. A dim mist of
dust is rising from the highroad close to the stream, and a quaint old
Maryland cabriolet, drawn by a venerable gray horse, is slowly coming
around the bend. The soldiers grouped about the gateway, back at the
farmhouse, turn and look curiously towards the hollow-sounding
hoof-beats, but neither the colonel nor his junior officer seems to notice
them. Abbot's thoughts are evidently far away, and he makes no reply.
The surgeon who sanctions his return to field duty yet a while would, to
all appearances, be guilty of a professional blunder. The lieutenant's
face is pale and thin; his hand looks very fragile and fearfully white in
contrast with the bronze of his cheek. He leans his head upon his hand
as he gazes away into the distance, and the colonel stands attentively
regarding him. He recalls the young fellow's gallant and spirited
conduct at Manassas and South Mountain; his devotion to his soldier
duty since the day he first "reported." If ever an officer deserved a
month at home, in which to recuperate from the shock of painful
wounds, surely that officer was Abbot. The colonel well knows with
what pride and blessing his revered old father would welcome his
coming--the joy it would 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 to see the lady of his love. He well remembers how
she came with other ladies to attend the presentation of colors to the
regiment, and