“He was—let me see—” and the Lieutenant tore open several more of the letters, and rapidly scanned them—“yes, these letters make it plain. He was a Lieutenant Calhoun Pennington, and he [pg 35]was from the Rebel army at Corinth. I take it he was on his way back to Kentucky to recruit for the command of a Captain John H. Morgan. Morgan—Morgan, I have heard of that fellow before. He played the deuce with us in Kentucky last winter: burned the railroad bridge over Bacon Creek, captured trains, tore up the railroad, and played smash generally. These letters all seem to be private ones written by the soldiers in Morgan’s command to their relatives and friends back in Kentucky. But he may have carried important dispatches on his person. We let a rare prize slip through our fingers.”
“Can’t be helped now,” dryly remarked Sergeant Latham. “If you had captured him it might have put one bar, if not two, on your shoulder-strap.”
The Lieutenant scowled, but did not reply. All the letters were read and passed around. Three or four of them occasioned much merriment, for they were written by love-lorn swains whom the cruel hand of war had torn from their sweethearts.
“Golly! it’s a wonder them letters hadn’t melted from the sweetness they contained,” remarked Sergeant Latham.
“Or took fire from their warmth,” put in a boyish looking soldier.
“Not half as warm as the letter I caught you writing to Polly Jones the other day,” laughed a comrade. “Boys, I looked over his shoulder and read some of it. I tell you it was hot stuff. ‘My dearest Polly!’ it commenced, ‘I——’ ”
But he never finished the sentence, for the young soldier sprang and struck him a blow which rolled him in the dust.
“A fight! a fight!” shouted the men, and crowded around to see the fun.
“Stop that!” roared the Lieutenant, “or I will have you both bucked and gagged when we get to camp. Sergeant Latham, see that both of those men are put on extra duty to-night.”
When things had quieted down, others of the letters were read; but some of them occasioned no merriment. Instead, one could see a rough blouse sleeve drawn across the eyes, and a gulping down as if something choked the wearer. These were letters written to the wives and mothers who were watching and waiting for their loved ones to return. These letters reminded them of their own wives and mothers in the Northland, waiting and praying for them.