“Oh, Will!—oh, Will!—my husband!” was what she said, while Mrs. Carleton uttered Jimmie’s name, and then Annie knew that harm had come to him, and placing Rose upon the sofa, she took the paper from Mrs. Carleton’s hand, and read:
“Will was badly wounded,—lay on the field all night;—Jimmie missing,—supposed to be a prisoner. I am well.
“T. Carleton.”
“Poor Jimmie!” Annie whispered, sadly, her heart throbbing with pity for the young man who had gone back in time to meet so sad a fate.
Never had so dark a day dawned upon Rose Mather as that which followed the arrival of Tom’s telegram, but ere its close there came a message of hope to her. Will had been taken to Washington, where he had providentially fallen into the hands of Mrs. Simms, who sent the joyful news that “no bones were broken, and he was doing well.”
“Oh, Annie, God is so much better to me than I deserve; I must love Him now, and I will, if He will only send Jimmie back,” Rose said, while Annie’s heart went up in a prayer of thanksgiving for Mr. Mather’s comparative safety, and then went out after the poor prisoner, whose destination was as yet unknown.
That night Rose started for Washington, and three days after there came to Annie a soiled, queer-looking missive, directed to “Miss Widder Anny Graam, At Miss Martherses,” the name written at the top of the letter, and the superscription spreading over so much surface, that, had there been another word, it must, from necessity, have been written on the other side of the letter. It was from Bill Baker, and it read as follows:
“Army of Potomac, and about as licked out an army as you ever seen. To all it may concern, and ‘specially Miss Anny Graam. I send you my regrets greetin’, and hopin’ this will find you enjoying the same great blessin’. Burnside has made the thunderinest blunder, and more’n a million of our boys is dead before Fredericksburgh. Mr. Mathers was about riddled through, I guess, and the Corporal,—wall, may as well take it easy,—I fit for him like a tiger, till they nocked me endways, and I played dead to save my life. But the Corporal’s a goner,—took prisoner with an awful cut on his neck; and now what I’m going to tell you is this: the night before the battle I came upon him prayin’ like a priest, kneelin’ in an awful mudpuddle, and what he said was somethin’ about Heaven, and Anny, whitch, beggin’ your pardon, I think means you, and so I ast him in case of bad luck, if I should write and tell you. I don’t think he could have ben in a vary sperritual frame of mind, for he told me to mind my bisiness, but I don’t lay it up agin him, and when them too tall, lantern-jawed sons of Balam grabbed him as he was tryin’ to skedaddle with the blood a spirtin’ from his neck, I pitched inter ’em, and give ’em hale columby for a spell, till they nocked me flat and I made bleeve dead as I was tellin’ you. Don’t feel bad, Miss Graam. Trust luck and keep your powder dry, and mabby he’ll come back sometime.
Yours to command,
“Bill Baker.”