For example, there is the story of a similar event—Admiral Dewey’s funeral—written in January, 1917, by Thoreau Cronyn, of the Sun, with a dramatic climax such as Ralph did not reach. This is the end of Cronyn’s story—the incident of the old bugler whose art failed him in his grief:
Chattering of spectators in the background hushed abruptly. A light breeze, which barely rumpled the river, set a few dry leaves tossing about the tomb of Farragut, Dewey’s mentor at Mobile. The voice of Chaplain Frazier could be heard repeating a prayer, catching, and then going on smoothly.
A second of silence, then the brisk call of the lieutenant commanding the firing-squad of Annapolis cadets.
“Load!”
Rifles rattling.
“Aim!”
Rifles pointed a little upward for safety’s sake, though the cartridges had no bullets.
“Fire!”
Twenty rifles snapped as one. This twice repeated—three volleys over the tomb into which the twelve sailors had just carried the admiral’s body.
And now came the moment for Master-at-Arms Charles Mitchell, bugler on the Olympia when Dewey sank the Spanish fleet, to perform his last office for the admiral. Raising the bugle to his lips and looking straight ahead at the still open door of the tomb, he sounded “taps.” The first three climbing notes and the second three were perfect. Then the break and the recovery, and the funeral was over.