“What is your name?” he inquired in a tone of severity that boded ill for my request.
I told him, and, in answer to other questions following, said my father was an officer during the Civil War in a Massachusetts regiment. I saw his face change from severity to interest, as he said pleasantly,
“Was your father Captain Stark of the —th Massachusetts?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Did you know him there?”
“I am afraid not,” he replied, smiling for the first time; “but my father did,” and added, “They were friends.” After a pause he added, “I must grant this request to the son of my father’s friend.”
I do not know whether this incident had anything to do with a promotion which I soon after received as corporal; but I am sure it did not hinder it. And I was prouder of that promotion than any that I ever received—unless a decoration received long after from the French can be called one.
I found, however, that the duties of even this small office carried with it not a little responsibility.
Possibly I magnify the office when I say that to be a good corporal, in charge of new men, required some rare qualities. He should be icy calm, have dignity like a judge and eyes like a gimlet, and good humor in profusion; or he won’t get much work out of his men. I was on a detail shortly after my promotion, hauling provisions for the Regimental Ware House, and I couldn’t turn my head without losing a man.
When I told Jot about it he smiled and replied: “You did well not to send men after those you lost, or you would have lost more men.” And I knew by that remark, that he had once been a corporal.