"In solid columns massed our frenzied foes
Beat out their life against the blazing hill—
Broke and re-formed and madly charged again,
And thundered like the storm-lashed, furious sea
Beating in vain against the solid cliffs.
Foremost in from our veteran regiment
Breasted the brunt of battle, but we bent
Beneath the onsets as the red-hot bar
Bends to the sledge, until our furious foes—
Mown as the withered prairie-grass is mown
By wild October fires—fell back and left
A field of bloody agony and death
About the base, and victory on the hill.
"I lost a score of riflemen that night;
My first lieutenant—his last battle over—
Lay cut in twain upon the battle-line.
With lantern dim wide o'er the slaughter-field
I searched at midnight for my wounded men,
But chiefly searched for Paul. An hour or more
I sought among the groaning and the dead,
Stooping and to the dim light turning up
The ghastly faces, till at last I found
Him whom I sought, and on the outer line—
Feet to the foe and silent face to heaven—
Death pale and bleeding from a ragged wound
Pleading with feeble voice to let him be
And die upon the field, we bore him thence;
And tenderly his comrades carried him,
Sheltered with blankets, on the weary march
At dead of night in dismal storm begun.
We made a stand at Harrison's, and there
With careful hands we laid him on a cot.
Now I had learned to prize the noble boy;
My heart was touched with pity. Patiently
I watched o'er Paul and bathed his fevered brow,
And pressed the cooling sponge upon his lips,
And washed his wound and gave him nourishment.
'Twas all in vain, the surgeon said. I felt
That I could save him and I kept my watch.
A rib was crushed—beneath it one could see
The throbbing vitals—torn as we supposed,
But found unwounded. In his feverish sleep
He often moaned and muttered mysteries,
And, dreaming, spoke in low and tender tones
As if some loved one sat beside his cot.
I questioned him and sought the secret key
To solve his mystery, but all in vain.
A month of careful nursing turned the scale,
And he began to gain upon his wound.
Propt in his cot one evening as he sat
And I sat by him, thus I questioned him:
'There is a mystery about your life
That I would gladly fathom. Paul, I think
You well may trust me, and I fain would hear
The story of your life; right well I know
There is a secret sorrow in your heart.'
[Illustration: STOOPING AND TO THE DIM LIGHT TURNING UP THE GHASTLY FACES, TILL I AT LAST I FOUND HIM WHOM I SOUGHT.]
"He turned his face and fixed his lustrous eyes
Upon mine own inquiringly, and held
His gaze upon me till his vacant stare
Told me full well his thoughts had wandered back
Into the depth of his own silent soul;
Then he looked down and sadly smiled and said:
"'Captain, I have no history—not one page;
My book of life is but a blotted blank.
Let it be sealed; I would not open it,
Even to one who saved a worthless life,
Only to add a few more leaves in blank
To the blank volume. All that I now am
I offer to my country. If I live
And from this cot walk forth, 'twill only be
To march and fight and march and fight again,'
Until a surer aim shall bring me down
Where care and kindness can no more avail.
Under our country's flag a soldier's death
I hope to die and leave no name behind.
My only wish is this—for what I am,
Or have been, or have hoped to be, is now
A blank misfortune. I will say no more.'
"I questioned Paul and pressed him further still
To tell his story, but he only shook
His head in silence sadly and lay back
And closed his eyes and whispered—'All is blank.'
That night he muttered often in his sleep;
I could not catch the sense of what he said;
I caught a name that he repeated oft—
Pauline—so softly whispered that I knew
She was the blissful burden of his dreams.
"Two moons had waxed and waned, and Paul arose,
Came to the camp and shared my tent and bed.
While in the hospital he helpless lay—
To him unknown, and as the choice of all—
Came his promotion to the vacant rank
Of him who fell at Malvern. But, alas,
Say what we would he would not take the place.
To us who importuned him, he replied:
'Comrades and friends, I did not join your ranks
For honor or for profit. All I am—
A wreck perhaps of what I might have been—
I freely offer in our country's cause;
And in her cause it is my wish to serve
A private soldier; I aspire to naught
But victory—and there be better men—
Braver and hardier—such should have the place.'
"His comrades cheered, but Paul, methought, was sad.
One evening as he sat upon his couch,
Communing with himself as he was wont,
I stood before him; looking in his face,
I said, 'Pauline—her name is then, Pauline.'
All of a sudden up he rose amazed,
And looked upon me with such startled eyes
That I was pained and feared that I had done
A wrong to him whom I had learned to love.
Then he sat down upon his couch and groaned,
Pressing his hand upon his wound, and said:
'Captain, I pray you, tell me truthfully,
Wherefore you speak that name.'
"I told him all
That I had heard him mutter in his dreams.
He listened calmly to the close and said:
'My friend, if you have any kind regard
For me who suffer more than you may know,
I pray you utter not that name again.'
And thereupon he turned and hid his face.
"There was a mystery I might not fathom,
There was a history I might not hear:
Nor could I further press that saddened heart
To pour its secret sorrow in my ears.
Thereafter Paul was tenant of my tent—
Sat at my mess and slept upon my couch,
Save when his duty called him from my side,
And not a word escaped his lips or mine
About his secret—yet how oft I found
My eyes upon him and my bridled tongue
Prone to a question; but that solemn face
Forbade me and he wore his mystery.