The senior surgeon, as the road wound near, stepped down toward it when the horseman, still holding himself proudly erect, passed by. “Sergeant,” he hailed the guidon, “where is Captain Dovinger?”
The hand mechanically went to the boy's forehead in the usual military salute. “Killed, sir.”
“Where are the other officers of the squadron—the junior captain, the lieutenants?”
“Killed, sir.”
“What has become of the troopers?”
“Killed, sir, in the last charge.”
There was a pause. Then Dr. Trent broke forth: “Are you a fool, boy? If your command is annihilated, why do you keep up this commotion?”
The young fellow looked blank for a moment. Then, as if he had not reasoned on the catastrophe: “I thought at first they monght be scattered—some of 'em. But ef—ef—they war dead, but could once see the guidon, sure 't would call 'em to life. They couldn't be so dead but they would rally to the guidon! Guide right!” he shouted suddenly. “Dovinger's Rangers! Rally on the guidon, boys! Rally on the reserve!”
It was a time that hardened men's hearts. The young soldier had no physical hurt that might appeal to the professional sympathies of the senior surgeon, and he turned away with a half laugh. “Let him go along! He can't rally Dovinger's Rangers this side of the river Styx, it seems.”
But an old chaplain who had been hovering about the field hospital, whispering a word here and there to stimulate the fortitude of the wounded and solace the fears of the dying, recognized moral symptoms alien to any diagnosis of which the senior surgeon was capable. The latter did not deplore the diversion of interest, for the old man's presence was not highly esteemed by the hospital corps at this scene of hasty and terrible work, although, having taken a course in medicine in early life, he was permitted to aid in certain ways. But the surgeons were wont to declare that the men began to bleat at the very sight of the chaplain. So gentle, so sympathetic, so paternal, was he that they made the more of their wretched woes, seeing them so deeply deplored. The senior surgeon, moreover, was not an ardent religionist. “This is no time for a revival, Mr. Whitmel,” he would insist. “Jack, there, never spoke the name of God in his life, except to swear by it. He is too late for prayers, and if I can't pull him through, he is a goner!” But the chaplain was fond of quoting: