The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1883-06-30

merry note, 1t is mockery. Does be know
what he is singing about? Does he know
what the bugle sang, that he answers with
such merry defiance? And then l want him
to keep perfectly quiet. l want the wind to
hush, and the leaves to keep still and the
brook to stifie its babble and laughter am
listening for football, the cracking of a
twig, the muffled tramp Of column of men
stealing through the woods under leafy cover.
l am listening for the neigh of horse,
catter of rhythmic hoof-beats, a ring
ing carbine-shot Peering out Of the
window of this lonely cell. I am
listening-eeYer Since that first bugle-call
came winding over the hill l have been
| listening-for sterner music than the robins
note and the wood-brook's murmur
''March'
There it is at last Lean see nothing from
this window. The voice comes like a far
away echo of the bugle-a boyish voice soft
| ened into music by the day and the distance.
l picture to myselfth the fair-haired lieutenant
who commands the skirmishers. Ali those
days made men of boys the school-boy
fought beside the veteran, and the adjutant
of twenty messed with the colonel of forty.
Will the line never come in my sight?
"HaltI''
Silence again, and once more the bugle
calls down the unseen line Now l can hear
the tramp OF feet amid all the terrible hush
OF preparation. All about me the tide of
battle will sweep, save only where can see
it; and I-penned in this prison like Gagged
rat, with ringing bugle and clanking saber
| calling me out, shouting my name in words
that burn and ring and ring again-and l
am here.
march,"
Away off the tap of drum, the fam, fam,
| fam, cadencing the step OF the marching col
umn. Nearer it comes, and further away it
sweeps, faints into quiet at last.
Tramp, tramp tramp Mutfled, vet dis
tinct, and stepping nearer with every football.
There they come!' shouts some one. | hold
my breath; press my hand on my heart and
wait for the first shot from the skirmishers.
Ready"
The click of musket so close it seems in
| the very room where l am. Gods! If the
robin would only hush his song. ] listen for
the sound of the boyish voice again. 1t
seems to me in my excited condition, there
is childish treble to it. wonder if
"Fire!"
How the cheers, pealing up in waves of
sound, drowned the crash l was listening
for! Again the boyish voice calls "Firel"
and again the shrill cheers follow. They
hush as the bugle-notes come pealing down
the line again. | hear the wheels as a bat
terry is hurried forward l hear drum beat.
l hear the tramp of hurrying feet. Some
one is calling for 1.-The flag"
Once 1 heard-so close the tide of
battle swept to my prison-a saber spring
from its scabbard with an angry sweep. And
all this time l could see only the golden sun,
shine-only the futtering leaves and the
playing shadows frightening into the waning
day; and floating in at my window came the
mellow whistle of the robin.
The cheers are fainter now as the shadows
grow longer. The robins note has ceased
Mellow, clear and beautifully imperious as
ever, the bugle calls again. A pail of silence
falls upon the clamor and din of the battle. l
try the door of my prison. 1t yields to my
touch. Down stairway, with noiseless
tread, l hasten. l step through curtained
door, l stand on the field where the waves
of contention had Numbered and dashed.
The level rays of the setting sun drift over
the helpless figures stretched about me like
a blessing upon the dead.
At my feet the overturned cannon lies.
There are its shattered wheels. Lying across
the brazen muzzle, his back to the field and
his feet to the foe" is stretched an artillery
sergeant, still grasping the broken saber in
his nerveless hand. Here is PROSTATE group
OF infantry soldiers; they will never stand
upon their feet again. Here is trooper;
headless he lies under the horse that with
two legs torn away has fallen upon him. A
little drummer boy-how came such a child
here where the fiery maelstrom of war cir
cled and eddied in fire and carnage and
fury?-lies by his drum. l bend above him,
and in face and form there is nothing human
left. Red are the stains about it, and his
broken little hand hangs stiff and rigid on
the edge of the shattered drum. 1t is terri
BILE. Here, CHASTITY and horrible, lies head,
the blue cap with it's scarlet and white
| pompon still resting iauntly over the brow;
but nowhere can | see the soldiers
body. Here is saber bent and
twisted in the fury of hand-to- hand combat.
l walk among headless trunks, arms and
legs without bodies; crippled horses lie prone
on their Sides or stand YEARLY, and with
n not laro I
carefully over and around the broken, shat
tered bodies Of the fallen men. Here is the
flag, tattered and unfurled, just as it dropped
from the hands of the sergeant; here an ep-
aulet, glittering in crimson and gold; here
is the gilded belt of the general; here,
marred and bent and dented, lies the bugle
whose silver voice called into play this
wreck and carnage. And here, away off on
the edge of the field, away, where just the
spray of this angry wave of strife could
have reached, my foot almost falls on
child lying PROSTATE, half turned on her
face, The dainty feet peep, out of
cloud of silk and lace; the tangled
hair of gold, a skein of sunshine, half
hides the brow and cheek. There is no sign
of life in the beautiful face. Killed by the
| terror and fear born of the battle? l bend
to lift the little form, and the arm upon
which l thought the child was lying is gone;
a horrible cash reaches from the temple to
the base of the brain, and the left eye is
crushed in its socket. The chld-the dear,
sweet little girl; somebody's darling, fair
sacrifice TO the hideous Moloch of war, how
could
"Robbie'' I hear the voice of her little Sc
rene highness. Robbie! Come now, and
pick up your toys, dear. You've left your
dolly and all your soldiers scattered about
over the floor, so that papa can scarcely walk
across the room. And somebody has stepped
on poor little Bessie's head. I'm afraid she'll
have to go to the surgical institute
A patter OF flying feet, and the blue-eyed
commander of the troops aged six, comes
charging into the room, and, resolving him
self into an ambulance corps collects the dead
and wounded with both helds scoops them
into big box, examines the fracture in the
wounded dollys head for saw-dust, and APP