Our “next” came only after we got to Petersburg. There our battery took charge of the mortars of the army. Griffith was one of the men I selected when asked to volunteer for a particularly perilous mortar service. He might or might not be able to tell a story, but he could stand fire as well as any man I ever knew.
About four o’clock one morning, when we had been engaged in a fierce bombardment all night, the fire ceased for a time, and Billy Goodwin demanded the rest of that bear story.
“You see I’ve got seven bets on that story,” said Billy, “and I don’t want to win any man’s money unfairly. One bet is that he won’t ever get to the bear, and I don’t want to take any man’s money without givin’ him a chance.”
“Well, wait a minute,” I replied, “till I start up the fire; we’ve got to have some breakfast.”
The fire was out.
“Somebody must go up,” I said, “to the next fort and get a chunk of fire. It won’t do to get fire by shooting a mortar,”—which was our usual way,—“because if we do that, we’ll start this bombardment again.”
“I’ll go,” said Griffith, “and then I’ll tell the rest of that story.”
There was a fearful hail of bullets between the two forts. The cannon were silent, but the musketry fire was incessant. Griffith started off, crouching as he went up the path so as to expose as little as possible of his person.
That was the last I ever saw of him.
As he was borne off on the litter, he sent word to me that he “hoped I hadn’t any bets on that bear story.”