The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1902-11-27
THE IRON BRIGADE
A Story OF THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC

bids him ship the remains that night IL
need be, but rejoin his regiment before the
9TH brigade is marching through this
says the colonel, with quivering
lips, but the senator brought me here to
the President. 1 have telegraphed to a
brother to come il Unjust co." and the
haggard eyes look in dumb appeal across
the room, where looms the equally haggard
face OF Lincoln, now turned in mute pa
thence toward an impetuous, persistent lit
tie woman who, backed by certain friends
at court. is demanding that the President
reverse the decision of the adjutant general
and send a soldier son to duty nearer home
than with Butler in New Orleans, where
surely he'll catch the yellow fever and die.
The whole room can hear her. The Presi-
dent is the only man not of her immediate
retinue that does not show impatience. 1t
may be here and now he thinks of the IA
nous story he tells at another time-the
story of the good old lady who, when the
st. Lawrence steamer was shooting the
Lachine rapids and the captain stood alb
sorbed in the duty of guiding his ship and
living cargo safely through, startled every
one by a cry of Stop and lower a boat
my little boys lost his apple" Not for
worlds will even that worn, h-eart-wrung,
nerve-racked leader say the word to wound
a mother. But, oh, the infinite sadness OF
the smile with which he speaks-his voice
so low and gentle only those about him can
hear, and she is finally led way with a
card to the 'housekeeper,"-th best the
President can do, he says-"for L don't
seem to have much influence with this add
ministration." Then he gives hand and
greeting to the great senator from New
York, another to the colonel. hurriedly pre-
sented, and inclines hat ever-patient ear
to both, as again the sad, pathetic tale is
told. Oh, the pity and sorrow and sympa-
thy in the deep-set. somber eyes, the an
guish in the rugged features as he hears
the final words, stanton says no because
the brigade is marching through this mo-
ment."
clenched and uplifted, almost as though in
appeal to heaven, but. though the deep
voice breaks and trembles. though the pal
lid lips twitch with pain, the answer comes
infexibly:
"And no II must be- Not a man, not a
musket. can We spare. 1t may be the very
crisis of the war, and 1 should be false to
my trust If / did not hold myself and every
soldier to the duty of the hour. Let the
dead bury their dead. I cannot rob a regi-
ment of it's leader at such a time"
And the two men, the sorely grieving
colonel. the sorely tried c~ommander-in-
chief, look one instant into each others
swimming eyes. There is a soldier salute
but utter silence. and the colonel turns
away.
you don't need me here" gulps Fred a
moment later. IT am going to see if / can
help the colonel. There's no one with him.
I'll come to you, father, lateral Will
lard's."
And so 1t happens that, riding at the
earliest lawn to catch the division, Benton
passes a carriage at the outskirts of
Georgetown. preceded by a cavalry SER
geant, who speaks a word to sentries or
patrols of the provost guard to the end that
the vehicle, with it's attendant brace of
troopers. meets no detention. whereas he.
an aid-de-camp going on duty, has to ac-
count for himself every few blocks. ''Some
belated general thinks he as. once clear
of the streets, he spurs swiftly up the
Rockville pike. He has had his few cheer
ing words with Jack. He has found Elinor.
his sister. vying with Rosalie. his queen, in
attention to the captive. He could wish
that sister elsewhere, for not a word has
he alone with the girl who holds his heart
Ut is doubtful IL he would have had any
other luck had Elinor been away So, per-
haps. like the girls at Charlottesville his
sister had fallen under the sway of the
stronger nature. He has been with that
silent, grief-stricken soldier colonel until
between them, they have seen the cofined
relics safely stored in a sections charge
Then, with long hand clasp. he leaves him
with his dead and goes to say farewell tc
his father. 1t Is long past midnight now
but Washington still wakes, and finally
just as the pallid light Is creeping into the
eastward sky, Benton reins I'm at the chal.
| lenge of a sentry and the sight of a tented
field. Behind him, in the lower ground
feebly glow the night lights of Georgetown
Beyond them lies the great, struggling city
Here. close at hand. a sentry PAGES slowly
by the roadway, recognizes the abide.
camp at once and bids him advance. A
dim light burns in a nearby wall tent
Yes. sir, the colonel got back soon after
g." is the answer to his question as, swing
Ing Out Ol SduOle, bentOH throws the relns
over a fence post and scratches at the TEN
flap.
"'Tis i, colonel-only Benton. I stopped
to see"
But the tent flap is thrown back from
within and a voice bids him enter. 'T'v,
been writing tony poor motherless ba
bies," chokes the colonel, and then at las
breaks down, bows his humbled head upor
his arm on the rude camp table that shake,
with the sobs wrung from an almost burst
ing heart. Who can picture. much les.
soothe, a grief like this? Benton has seer
him time and again, ever alert, ready. Wig
orous on the march, CHEEKY and cordial il
all manner Of wind and weather, inspiring
commanding, magnificent in battle, Godlik,
almost in his superb dominion over men
But it is the strong and soldierly and viril
that love the deepest and that suffer mos
when robbed OF the hearts idol and delight
1.-The braves are the tenderest. The lovin,
are the daring" And in worthless sympa
thy Benton can only lay his hand upon tn
massive shoulder. while the teardrops wei
from. his own Drumming eyes.
INC then there are voices, low and deep
without the tent. and then a football clos,
at hand, and a tall, dark form, envelope,
in a cloak. looms between them and tn,
gathering dawn, and Benton, staring an,
only half credulous, stammers the cues
ton. who is it," Then both men stan,