"Bring up your guns, boy," he cried. "Bring up your heavy guns. Fling your cavalry to the left, your infantry to the right. 'Up, Guards, and at 'em!' Cold steel, my boy—as Jinks used to say."
Grandfathers for counsel; little boys for war. At five that night the enemy surrendered—horse, foot, and a hundred guns. Declining the General's proffered sword, you rode back across the battle field to your camp in the fallen leaves. The afternoon was waning. In the gathering twilight your horse stumbled on a prostrate form. You dismounted, knelt, brushed back the leaves, peered into the dimmed eyes and ashen face.
"Captain!" you cried. "Captain Jinks!" And at your call came Lizbeth, running, dragging the Rag Doll by her hand. Breathless they knelt beside him where he lay.
"Oh, it's Captain Jinks," said Lizbeth, but softly, when she saw. Prone on the battle-field lay the wounded Grenadier, his uniform gray with service in the wind and rain.
"Captain!" you cried again, but he did not hear you. Then the Rag Doll bent her face to his, in the twilight, though she could not speak. A glimmer of recognition blazed for a moment, but faded in the Captain's eyes.
"He's tired marching, I guess," said Lizbeth.
"'Sh!" you said. "He's dying."
You bent lower to feel his fluttering pulse. You placed your ear to the cross of honor, rusted, on his breast. His heart was silent. And so he died—on the battlefield, his musket at his side, his heels together, his little fingers just touching the seams of his pantaloons.
Father
