We had a wild little battle song in 'Our Mess,' written by Charlie Marsh, our fair-haired boy-poet soldier, speaking of home, and the country's need, and victory, and possible deaths in ringing notes. We sang it there in the light of the slowly rising moon. The chorus was like this:
'Our country's foe before us,
Our country's banner o'er us,
Our country to deplore us,
These are a soldier's needs.'
As we closed, Grace caught the strain, and with soft, birdlike notes sang:
'Your country's flag above you,
Your country's true hearts love you—
So let your country move you
To brave, undying deeds.'
More songs followed, and happy words of cheer in distress, of self-consecration, of past and future victory; but Major Fanning was unusually silent. Hardly sad, for he flung into our conversation occasional cheerful words; but gravely quiet, his dark eye following every motion of his fair young wife. Finally we called on Captain Carter, our 'oldest man,' a grave bachelor of forty-five, and to our surprise, who knew him harsh and sometimes profane, he sang, with a voice not faultless, but soft and expressive, that exquisite health of Campbell's:
'Drink ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame
That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.
'And far, far hence be jest or boast,
From hallowed thoughts so dear;
But drink to her that each loves most,
As she would love to hear.'
Then silence for a little space; and the moonlight full and fair in soldiers' faces, young and old, but all firm and true, and fair and full on Grace Fanning's fresh, young brow. Then 'good-nights,' mingled with expressions of enjoyment, and plans for the morrow. I left them last.
'I am glad you are here, Robert,' said the major; 'Grace would not be all alone, even if I'—
Her white hand flashed to his lips, where a kiss met it, and laughingly we parted. A few rods away, I paused and turned. They stood there under the flag. Her bright head on his bosom, his arms about her, and the silver moonlight over all. Fair Grace Fanning! Have I named my story wrongly, pretty reader? I called it 'Camp Sketch,' and it reads too like a love story. 'Ah! gentle girl, seeking adventure in fiction, but shrinking really from even a cut finger, there is enough of battle even in my little story, though you slept peacefully and happily that fair June night, or waltzed yourself weary to the sound of the sea at the 'Ocean House.'
A few 'good nights' commendatory of our hostess and our evening greeted me as I sought my tent and made ready for sleep. I was very happy, no memory of our talk was sullied by coarse or unlovely thought; pure as herself had been our enjoyment of Mrs. Fanning's society, and I slept sweetly.