He was sitting alone upon the bench, with one knee drawn up and held by his clasped hands. Upon his cap he wore the blue Maltese cross we had been seeking, and on the breast of his faded and loosely fitting army blouse hung a simple medal of bronze. Into one corner of his mouth was stuck a quaintly carved, briar-wood pipe, and as he tranquilly sat there, blowing from his thin lips an occasional puff of smoke, he seemed contented with himself and the world in general—and I somehow thought that in his expression I saw something different from the air of hopelessness which had been so sadly common to the many old soldiers we had passed before we happened upon him.
"Hello, comrade," said the colonel, walking towards the bench on which the old fellow sat, and throwing open his coat to bring into view the enamelled corps badge pinned upon his waistcoat, "how goes it with you?"
"Fust-rate," replied the veteran, without bothering to remove his pipe from its resting place. "How be ye?" he went on, speaking with a sharp, nasal twang which at once opened my heart to him—for he was a Yankee, and I love the honest, hardy old stock that comes from among the New England hills and valleys. "I see you was in th' ol' 19th, too," said he, moving over to the end of the seat. "Set ye down an' be comf'table."
"Yes, I went out with the —th Massachusetts and saw the thing through," said the colonel, seating himself next his new-found friend and leaving vacant for me one end of the bench. "What was your regiment?"
"Burdett's Batt'ry, New Hampshire," replied the old fellow, with a critical side-glance at the colonel; "an' if ye was in th' Massachusetts —th ye won't have no trouble in rememberin' how our guns use'ter sound, neither."
"Lord! I should say not," said the colonel, turning to me with, "This comes to pretty much the same thing as meeting an old acquaintance, Jack, for Burdett's Battery was one of the best in our division, and the 'Old Regiment' has supported it more times than one. Yes, indeed," he went on, as he reached into his pocket for his cigars, "I've listened to your music many a day. Good music, too, it was. The infantry does the work—but sometimes guns are mighty comforting companions."
"You bet they be," said the old artilleryman, shaking the ashes from his pipe and taking a cigar from the paper which the colonel held towards him. "Thank ye. A pipe's my reg'lar smoke, but once 'n a while I kind o' like t' change off onto a cigar. Yis, I was in Burdett's Light Batt'ry, an' was mustered out a sargint."
"What brought you down here?" asked the colonel, handing a match to the old soldier. "Down on your luck a bit, eh?"
"No-o, not exackly," returned the veteran, as he smartly drew the match across his thigh after the manner of one who had acquired the habit in active service. Glancing quickly around, and seeing that we were alone—for the nearest group was gathered beside an old siege gun, some fifty yards away—he lowered his voice a trifle and said, "Fact is, I ain't obliged t' board down here, an', strickly speakin', I s'pose I hadn't oughter be here at all. Ye see, when I'm home I live up Swanzey way—that's up in New Hampshire, an' not sech an orful way from th' Massachusetts line. I'm able t' git along tol'ably comf'table up there, with one odd job an' another, but this fall I kind o' took it inter my head that I'd like t' spend th' winter south, an' I managed it, too. So here I be. Nex' spring, though, when things gits all thawed out up north, I guess I'll move along up agin t' see th' folks, for this is a terrible shif'less sort o' country, down here, an' I wouldn't want t' stay here for a stiddy thing."
"I see how it is," laughed the colonel, understanding that this confession was made because the old sergeant hated to have it thought that he had been driven by want to accept the government's hospitality. "You're playing it foxy on Uncle Sam for a little vacation."