The exceptional talent which, during the war, these young men freely gave in aid of every charity, was then only budding.  Since the war, splendid fruit has appeared.

Perhaps no single company of veterans numbers among its members more talented and remarkable men, or more prominent and loyal citizens.

Of the “boys” who once composed Fenner’s Louisiana Battery, a goodly number yet survive.

The ties of old comradeship bind them closely.  Not one forgets the glories of the past.  True,

“Some names they loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb,”

but the survivors “close up” the broken ranks, and still preserve, in a marked degree, the esprit du corps which belonged to

“The days that are no more.”

CHAPTER X.

“BOB WHEAT.”

The Boy and the Man.

(Communicated.)

In the early summer of 1846, after the victories of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma, the United States Army, under General Zachary Taylor, lay near the town of Matamoras.  Visiting the hospital quarters of a recently-joined volunteer corps from “the States,” I remarked a bright-eyed youth of some nineteen years, wan with disease, but cheery withal.  The interest he inspired led to his removal to army headquarters, where he soon recovered health and became a pet.  This was “Bob Wheat,” son of an Episcopal clergyman, and he had left school to come to the war.  He next went to Cuba with Lopez, was wounded and captured, but escaped the garroters to follow General Walker to Nicaragua.

Exhausting the capacity of South American patriots to pronounce, he quitted their society in disgust, and joined Garibaldi in Italy, whence his keen scent of combat summoned him home in time to receive a bullet at Manassas.  The most complete Dugald Dalgetty possible; he had “all the defects of the good qualities” of that doughty warrior.

Some months after the time of which I am writing, a body of Federal horse was captured in the valley of Virginia.  The colonel commanding, who had dismounted in the fray, approached me.  A stalwart, with huge moustache, cavalry boots adorned with spurs worthy of a caballero, slouched hat and plume; he strode along with the nonchalant air of one who had wooed Dame Fortune too long to be cast down by her frowns.

Suddenly Major Wheat near by sprung from his horse with a cry of “Percy, old boy!” “Why, Bob!” was echoed back, and a warm embrace followed.  Colonel Percy Windham, an Englishman in the Federal service, had parted from Wheat in Italy, where the pleasant business of killing was then going on, and now fraternized with his friend in the manner described.

Poor Wheat!  A month later he slept his last sleep on the bloody battle-field of Cold Harbor.  He lies there in a soldier’s grave.

Gallant spirit; let us hope that his readiness to die for his country has made “the scarlet of his sins like unto snow.”