CHAPTER XIII. OLD BILL DIES.

HE beautiful autumn days grew shorter. Novembers blasts were keenly felt, even in that sunny clime, and the boys looked forward with dismay to a winter passed in inaction.

“Why, we'll have to fight to keep warm,” jolly Fred Greene said to the comrades gathered round.

Old Bill had been in hospital for many months. Ralph visited him often, and the sick man's face would brighten, and his voice grow stronger whenever the boy came to his bedside. But he seemed to have lost interest in everything pertaining to this life. Ralph tried earnestly to induce him to talk of the events passing around them, but without success.

One morning early in November, when he went to pay his usual visit, the boy said:

“Bill, this is my first experience as a soldier. But you have seen plenty of service before?”

The sick man shook his head slowly, but made no reply. Ralph waited a few moments, and began to think his question had not been considered worthy of an answer, when Bill suddenly spoke:

“Yes, I have been out on the border fighting Indians, for years. How I detest the redskins. They seldom come out and give a man a fair show, but they just go on the warpath, and then it's skulk and lie in ambush, and burn sleeping villages, massacring women and children. Their mode of warfare don't suit me.” And the disdainful curl of the lip showed what he thought of them. After a long pause, he resumed:

“Then I was in the Mexican War. I was quite a stripling then, and I fought under General Phil Kearney. He was a fighter, brave as a lion, and when he lost his arm not a man under him but would rather it had been his own arm shot away. He's one 01 General McClellan's most trusty officers. His experience is worth millions to younger men. How I'd like to see noble Phil Kearney!”

“Why, Bill, didn't you know that he was killed at the battle of Groveton, Va., in September?”

[Original]

“Kearney killed—and I've been lying here, and knew nothing about it! It's too hard. Let's hear all you know, Ralph.”

“I can only tell you what we heard. You know we wasn't there to see it, but he was sent to Hooker's support, when the lat-ter's men charged Jackson with bayonets. They had an awful battle, but General Kearney had been sent to their assistance too late, and he was forced back. Hooker almost broke the enemy's line, but fresh bodies of Confederates hastening up, changed the outlook, and so the Union boys were repulsed. At six in the afternoon General Pope ordered another attack, and Kearney came up in fine style, seizing a railroad cut on the Warrenton turnpike where Jackson was nicely entrenched, and holding it for awhile. One of the Confederate regiments who ran short of ammunition, hurled great stones and fragments of the rocks at our men, killing many. General Kearney still maintained his position, but was overpowered by numbers, and driven out of the cut.”

Ralph paused, but Bill's eyes were gleaming with excitement “Go on,” he said, earnestly—“is that all?”

“The two armies rested till the next day, when a still fiercer attempt was made to rout the rebels, but in spite of the most stubborn fighting, our army was withdrawn from the field, and fell back to Fairfax Court House; but the next evening, September 1st, Stonewall Jackson made another attack upon General Popes flank, which was resisted hotly, and General Kearney, with Hooker, Reno, McDowell and Stevens, were there to help, but General Stevens fell dead at their fire, and as all their ammunition had been used up, his men retired at once. General Kearney started forward to reconnoiter, and was confronted by a Confederate band; he put spurs to his horse, hoping to escape, but they shot him dead.”

Bill shook his head solemnly, and leaning back on his pillow, he closed his eyes, as if he had fallen asleep. Glad to have awakened even so slight attention as he had succeeded in doing, the boy continued:

“Bill, we have a new commander now. The President has relieved General McClellan, and we are to have General Burnside. What do you think of that?”

A look of the old time came into Bill's face, as he answered:

“Yes, I have a new commander—one whose call will soon be heard!”

Ralph shuddered. He knew too well the meaning of Bills words.

“I mean our army commander, Bill; General McClellan has been relieved of his command, and General Burnside has been appointed in his place.”

“General McClellan—yes, he's too slow. It needs some one with a little push. But it's all the same to me, now.”

And that was all he said about the change. He lay on his cot, looking intently at Ralph, and suddenly he broke out with—“I don't know why I'm so fond of you, boy, unless it's 'cause you mind me of Eddie. He was just such a little plucky, fair-faced lad as you are, and I can't help mixing you up with him.”

Ralph wondered who Eddie was, but he waited patiently. Bill's eyes burned with a luster the boy had never seen there before. The sick man's face was very thin. The brown tint that outdoor life always gives had faded, and the sharp features looked more pinched and wan from their pallor. He went on in a weak and trembling voice:

“She was a beauty, and I was powerful fond of her. Her eyes were like a young fawn's, and her hair was brown as the chestnuts when they ripen in the sun. She liked Frank better nor me, and she told me so. Then when they were married, I hated him bitterly. But when the little fellow come, and they sent for me, somehow from the first time I took the little tot in my arms, and he smiled up into my face, all my anger died out. After that I would have died sooner than harm his daddy. They were happy with each other. But he died when the lad was ten or so, and left the poor wife alone. I didn't know how to comfort her, and she grieved continually. One day, when he was quite a lad, nearly sixteen, and needed his mother most, they found her dead on her husband's grave. Ah, that is the way some women love!

“That nigh killed me, but I meant to be a good friend to the boy. They took even that comfort from me, for they carried him away down South to his father's folks, and I never seed him again.”

The man's face was fever-flushed now, and his words came almost in a whisper. He tossed uneasily from side to side.

“Ralph, my head bothers me—it aches so strangely. I wish—”

But the wish was never told. A wild look came over his face, his words became incoherent. A delirium had seized him, and kindly as he was tended by the nurses and his comrades, he never regained his senses. A few days of apparent suffering, and Bill Elliotts kindly heart ceased to beat. The uncouth, rugged, but brave soldier had passed on to the Great Beyond.

[Original]

It was late in the afternoon of a raw November day, while the winds shrieked mournfully, when they carried him to a little valley in which they had dug a grave, into whose depth they lowered the body of a brave and true soldier, who never shirked a duty. The chaplain, a plain and tender, man, read impressively that beautiful Psalm:

“Hear my cry, O God; attend unto my prayer.

“From the end of the earth will I cry unto Thee, when my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

“For Thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy.

“I will abide in Thy tabernacle forever. I will trust in the covert of Thy wings. Selah.”

In a clear and ringing voice he read the solemn burial service, and the comrades of the dead soldier listened reverently. When he had concluded, some one suggested that they sing, and a clear, sweet voice broke plaintively into that exquisite hymn,

“Abide with me, fast falls the eventide;

The darkness deepens—Lord, with me abide; *

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.”

The voice suddenly broke into a passion of tears, and Ralph threw himself on the grave, which was fast being filled up, and cried—“Bill, Bill, you were my best friend—I cannot let you go.”

There were many looks of sympathy for the boy, but death was, after all, nothing but a passing incident to men who faced it every hour, and as Ralph went back to his tent, his heart rebelled at the levity which allowed the merry jest to pass around, as to whose turn it would be next.

To him it was a new experience. He had seen hundreds of men shot down in battle, but no one had died whom he had cared for, and it came home to him. He had become deeply attached to Bill, whose cheerful, off-hand manners had enlivened the homesick boy. He had lost his comrade, but his memory was cherished, and he was missed for a long time.