Quite So | Page 6

I did n't mean to
listen, but what Mary was saying struck me dumb. We must never meet
again, she was saying in a wild way. We must say good-by here, for
ever,--good-by, good-by! And I could hear her sobbing. Then, presently,
she said, hurriedly, No, no; my hand, not my lips! Then it seemed he
kissed her hands, and the two parted, one going towards the parsonage,
and the other out by the gate near where I stood.
"I don't know how long I stood there, but the night-dews had wet me to
the bone when I stole out of the graveyard and across the road to the
school-house. I unlocked the door, and took the Latin grammar from
the desk and hid it in my bosom. There was not a sound or a light
anywhere as I walked out of the village. And now," said Bladburn,
rising suddenly from the tree-trunk, "if the little book ever falls in your
way, won't you see that it comes to no harm, for my sake, and for the
sake of the little woman who was true to me and did n't love me?
Wherever she is to-night, God bless her!"
As we descended to camp with our arms resting on each other's
shoulder, the watch-fires were burning low in the valleys and along the
hillsides, and as far as the eye could reach the silent tents lay bleaching
in the moonlight.

III.
We imagined that the throwing forward of our brigade was the initial
movement of a general advance of the army; but that, as the reader will
remember, did not take place until the following March. The
Confederates had fallen back to Centreville without firing a shot, and
the national troops were in possession of Lewinsville, Vienna, and
Fairfax Court-House. Our new position was nearly identical with that
which we had occupied on the night previous to the battle of Bull
Run--on the old turnpike road to Manassas, where the enemy was
supposed to be in great force. With a field-glass we could see the Rebel
pickets moving in a belt of woodland on our right, and morning and
evening we heard the spiteful roll of their snare-drums.

Those pickets soon became a nuisance to us. Hardly a night passed but
they fired upon our outposts, so far with no harmful result; but after a
while it grew to be a serious matter. The Rebels would crawl out on
all-fours from the wood into a field covered with underbrush, and lie
there in the dark for hours, waiting for a shot. Then our men took to the
rifle-pits--pits ten or twelve feet long by four or five deep, with the
loose earth banked up a few inches high on the exposed sides. All the
pits bore names, more or less felicitous, by which they were known to
their transient tenants. One was called "The Pepper-Box," another
"Uncle Sam's Well," another "The Reb-Trap," and another, I am
constrained to say, was named after a not-to-be-mentioned tropical
locality. Though this rude sort of nomenclature predominated, there
was no lack of softer titles, such as "Fortress Matilda" and "Castle
Mary," and one had, though unintentionally, a literary flavor to it,
"Blair's Grave," which was not popularly considered as reflecting
unpleasantly on Nat Blair, who had assisted in making the excavation.
Some of the regiment had discovered a field of late corn in the
neighborhood, and used to boil a few ears every day, while it lasted, for
the boys detailed on the night-picket. The corn-cobs were always
scrupulously preserved and mounted on the parapets of the pits.
Whenever a Rebel shot carried away one of these barbette guns, there
was swearing in that particular trench. Strong, who was very sensitive
to this kind of disaster, was complaining bitterly one morning, because
he had lost three "pieces" the night before.
"There's Quite So, now," said Strong, "when a Minie-ball comes ping!
and knocks one of his guns to flinders, he merely smiles, and does n't at
all see the degradation of the thing."
Poor Bladburn! As I watched him day by day going about his duties, in
his shy, cheery way, with a smile for every one and not an extra word
for anybody, it was hard to believe he was the same man who, that
night before we broke camp by the Potomac, had poured out to me the
story of his love and sorrow in words that burned in my memory.
While Strong was speaking, Blakely lifted aside the flap of the tent and
looked in on us.

"Boys, Quite So was hurt last night," he said, with a white tremor to his
lip.
"What!"
"Shot on picket."
"Why, he was in the pit next to mine," cried Strong.
"Badly hurt?"
"Badly hurt."