The Seattle post-intelligencer. [volume] (Seattle, Wash. Terr. [Wash.]) 1888-1914, 1892-05-29

| paign preceding the investment of this
| place, Tom Dupont marched with his regi-
| ment through Port Gibson and across
| both branches of Bayou Pierre, passing
| almost within sight of his home. As he
/ neared the crossing of the South Fork
every field, and almost every tree ana
| rock recalled some event of his boyhood.
| Here was road along which he had often
| ridden with his father. On certain
grassy slope his eyes sought the rabDit
| traps OF old Wash, and he felt himself a
| prisoner as he had never felt before.
| He remembered his mother alighting
| from her carriage by yonder girdled tree
| in the early morning. and how he. small.
| happy Tom, ran to and fro in the wet
| grass to pluck the sprays OF swamp sasa-
| fras. He saw her again as she smliingiy
| took the flowers from his hand and drew
| the stems through the belt at her slender
| waist-saw her in her white dress-saw
| her brown hair and dark handsome face.
| With child's tenacity of memory he re-
| called the scarlet geraniums that adorned
her straw hat and nodded in the yellow
light that fell on both Of them through
the great sun umbrella as they BOWED
along the soft road.
With other eyes he saw the steady swing
of the forest of rifle barrels before him
through a mist not born Of the swamps,
ana the bitter choking at his throat was
not the choking of the dust. Ten thou
sand furies overtake the cause that has
substituted so much that is bitter for so
much that was sweet. The regiment is
not marching fast enough. The mounted
orderly trotting past with official enyel-
opes in his belt and the visor of his cap
turned saucily up does not throw dust
enough. although he is a moving silhouette
of gray in a cloud OF his own raising.
That night Toms company is on picket.
From the shelter of a spreading tree he
looks out on the silent stretch of pasture
and woodland, the outlines of the trees
lost in the yellow fog, and at long inter-
walls comes to his listening ear the dull re-
port of musket. 1t is nearly day when
he is relieved and creeps back with
strangely heavy heart to the reserves.
Crouching beside log, within the shell
ter OF fence of rails, group of his COM
rades is engaged in game of cards. A
bayor ct has been thrust in the ground,
and III the steel shank sputtering candle
throws glimmering light on the soled
bits of pasteboard and into the stolid faces
OF the players.
Gradually the daylight begins to dawn
and with it comes a light breeze before
which the yellow fog disappears. The
useless candle has sputtered down, Its
wick has fallen over in the grease now
concealed in white drops along the blade
OF the inverted bayonet. The players,
however, play on, deaf to the Joyous
sounds of the morning deaf to the twit-
tering of the birds in the trees, insensible
to the freshness and fragrance Of grass and
earth and flowers.
Just over the fence in the pasture bobo-
link swaying on spray of elder sparkling
with dew-drops, has tuned his song and
the clear, full-throated notes seem to melt
in the morning
Suddenly there is a cry of agony from
the players and one of their number falls
lifeless over the log. Every man secures
his gun and such cover as he can reach
Tom Dupont's quick eye detects a puff of
smoke hanging in the top of Il tree just
outside the skirt of the opposite wood. In
moment there is another puff and an
other ball splinters the top rail Of the
fence. Half a dozen men run forward,
rate stumps which are conveniently scat
tered over the field. With each discharge
from the tree top the sharpshooters ad-
vance, but Tom Dupont is far in the lead
of the others; and now he detects a gray
form among the leaves Thrusting his load
ed rifle through hole in the dry earth
clinging to the roots of an overturned
pine. he covers his enemy, cody adjusts
the distance sights and fires. There is a
connection in the tree top, gun comes
plunging to the ground, followed by few
fiuttering leaves. but the desperate soldier,
having fallen few feet, remains swinging
from shivering limb clinging desperately
for life
The attention of the others is directed
to the gray coated soldiers who are swarm
ing out of the wood, but before his rife is
loaded again regiment bursts from the
left, charging under the tree and sweep
ing the enemy back into the woods.
The wounded soldier is still clinging to
the limb. Impetuous Tom springs for
Va m RI fra I,,ct
before he reaches the tree the exhausted
Confederate reaxes his desperate hold
and comes crashing to the ground.
With the sympathy which even a soldier
feels In the presence of death, our hero
looks sadly down upon the manned body,
still but for the occasional twitching of the
muscles, and hopes in his heart the gallant
youth is not dead.
1t is slender form: one helpless brown
hand broken at the wrist with taper fingers
as delicate as girls, lies out upon the wet
grass-tne other has clutched the thorny
stalk of dry thistle as if it held again to
the swaying limb The coarse gray uniform
is clean but ill-fitting; between the torn
collar and the cropped hair crimson stain
shows against the fair neck.
Tom kneels by the motionless figure and
turns it gently up to the morning light
1t is handsome, beardless face. A blade
of grass lies diagonally across the half
parted lips, held by a few crumbling
grains of yellow earth under clothed
flake of crimson. With deft fingers the
living soldier plucks away the distiguring
stalks.
The lips move feebly to shape the one
Mother
Then the closed eyes open, eyes as blue
as the heaven above them. A CLEAN of
recognition lights the dying face, the poor
arms struggle to rise. the quivering lips
speak again:
ssOb Tom ~ w TT CurrraD