Scofield nearly upset the boat in his precipitous
effort to gain a seat beside her—and Mr.
Merriweather did row another way.
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES
It was the beginning of a battle. The skirmish
line of the Union advance was sweeping rapidly over
a rough mountainous region in the South, and in his
place on the extreme left of this line was Private
Anson Marlow. Tall trees rising from underbrush,
rocks, bowlders, gulches worn by spring torrents,
were the characteristics of the field, which was in
wild contrast with the parade-grounds on which the
combatants had first learned the tactics of war.
The majority, however, of those now in the ranks had
since been drilled too often under like circumstances,
and with lead and iron shotted guns, not to know their
duty, and the lines of battle were as regular as the
broken country allowed. So far as many obstacles
permitted, Marlow kept his proper distance from the
others on the line and fired coolly when he caught
glimpses of the retreating Confederate skirmishers.
They were retiring with ominous readiness toward a
wooded height which the enemy occupied with a force
of unknown strength. That strength was soon manifested
in temporary disaster to the Union forces, which were
driven back with heavy loss.
Neither the battle nor its fortunes are the objects
of our present concern, but rather the fate of Private
Marlow. The tide of battle drifted away and left
the soldier desperately wounded in a narrow ravine,
through which babbled a small stream. Excepting
the voices of his wife and children no music had ever
sounded so sweetly in his ears. With great difficulty
he crawled to a little bubbling pool formed by a tiny
cascade and encircling stones, and partially slaked
his intolerable thirst.
He believed he was dying—bleeding to death.
The very thought blunted his faculties for a time;
and he was conscious of little beyond a dull wonder.
Could it be possible that the tragedy of his death
was enacting in that peaceful, secluded nook?
Could Nature be so indifferent or so unconscious if
it were true that he was soon to lie there dead?
He saw the speckled trout lying motionless at the
bottom of the pool, the gray squirrels sporting in
the boughs over his head. The sunlight shimmered
and glinted through the leaves, flecking with light
his prostrate form. He dipped his hand in the
blood that had welled from his side, and it fell in
rubies from his fingers. Could that be his blood—his
life-blood; and would it soon all ooze away?
Could it be that death was coming through all the
brightness of that summer afternoon?
From a shadowed tree further up the glen, a wood-thrush
suddenly began its almost unrivalled song. The
familiar melody, heard so often from his cottage-porch
in the June twilight, awoke him to the bitter truth.
His wife had then sat beside him, while his little
ones played here and there among the trees and shrubbery.
They would hear the same song to-day; he would never
hear it again. That counted for little; but the
thought of their sitting behind the vines and listening
to their favorite bird, spring after spring and summer
after summer, and he ever absent, overwhelmed him.
