Waterbury evening Democrat., 1904-11-07

see how sad, sorrow-stricken and hag-
 gard he looks. The matter is soon ex-
 plained, though the colonel speaks with
 choking voice. His son, a lieutenant
 in the Fifth New York-Duryea's zou-
 aves-had been down with Chickahom-
 iny fever at Newport News, so i'll that
 the mother had hastened thither.
 nursed him through 4-a ,Aen stayed
 and cared for dozens of poor boys
 whose mothers could not possibly 1 reach them, and so, sapped her own
 strength and finally succumbed, and
 noW-her cofnned body lies here at
 the wharf. Their sympathetic general
 had given the bereaved soldier permis-
 sion to turn over the command of the
 regiment temporarily and to seek at
 Stanton's hands four-days' leave just time enough to take the beloved and honored dust back to the home
 where weeping younger children await It. Then. the last sad rites performed, ,, though the wife of his youth, his man hood, his maturer years, the love of , his heart and life is laid away, he will
 return instantly to his duty, his com mand. Impossible will it be for them to catch Lee within that time No battle can occur that will involve the old division, but Stanton sternly says no; bids him ship the remains that
 night if need be, but rejoin his regi- ment before the morning.
 The brigade is marching through
 this moment" says the colonel, with quivering lips, "but the senator brought me hereto the president.
 have telegraphed to a brother to come If must go," and the haggard eyes
 look in dumb appeal into the equally
 haggard face of Lincoln, who inclines
 that ever-patient ear to both, as again the sad. pathetic tale is told Oh, the
 pity and sorrow and sympathy in the deep-set, somber eyes, the anguish in
 the rugged features as he hears the
 words, Stanton says no, because the
 brigade is marching through this mo- | ment''
 For an instant the strong hands are
 clenched and uplifted almost as though in appeal to Heaven, but though the deep voice breaks and tremb1es, though | the pa1lid lips twitch with pain, the answer comes inflexibly:
 And no it must be! Not man, not a musket, can we spare. It may be l the very crisis of the war, and should
 be false to my trust if did not Hold
 myself and every soldier to the duty l of the hour. Let the dead bury their dead. cannot rob regiment of it's leader at such time.'
 And the two men, the sorely griev- l ing colonel, the sorely-tried command er-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" guIps Fred a moment later. T am going to
 see if can help the colonel There's
 no one with him. I'll come to you, father. later at Wil1ard's''
 l And so it happens that, riding at the earliest dawn to catch the division,
 Benton passes carriage at the out skirts of Georgetown, preceded by a cavalry sergeant who speaks 8 word 1 to sentries or patrols .of the provost 1 guard to the end that the vehicle, with l it's attendant brace of troopers, meets | no detention, whereas he, an aide-de- 1 camp going on duty, has to account for
 himself every few blocks. Some be- lated general, thinks he as, once clear
 of the streets, he spurs swiftly up the Rockville pike. Just as the pallid light l is creeping into the eastward sky Ben 1 ton reins in at the challenge of a l sentry and the sight of a tented field
 Behind him, in the lower ground, 1 feebly glow the night lights of George l town. Beyond them lies the great,
 struggling city. Here, close at hand, 1 a sentry paces slowly by the roadway,
 recognizes the aide-de-camp at once and bids him advance. A dim light burns in nearby wall tent "Yes, 1 sir, the colonel got back soon after l three,' is the answer to his question,
 as, swinging out of saddle, Benton
 throws the reins over fence post and
 scratches at the tent flap,
 'Tis I. colonel-only Benton.
 stopped to see-7-' 7
 But the tent flap is thrown back I from within and voice bids him en- ter. I've been writing tony poor motherless babies" chokes the colonel, l and then at last breaks down, bows
 his humbled head upon his arm on the
 rude camp table that shakes with the soos wrung from an almost bursting
 heart Who can picture, much less
 soothe. a grief like this? Benton has
 seen him time and again, ever alert,
 ready, vigorous on the march, cheery
 and cordial in ali manner of wind and
 weather, inspiring, commanding. mag
 nificent in battle, God-like, almost. in ] his superb dominion over men. But l it is the strong and soldierly and virile
 that love the deepest and that suffer
 most when robbed of the hearts idol
 and delight. The bravest are the ] tenderest. The loving are the daring" !"
 Ard in wordless sympathy Benton 1 can only lay his hand upon the massive
 shoulder while the teardrops we'll from
 his own brimming eyes
 1 And then there are voices, low and deep, without the tent and then a foot fall close at hand, and tall, dark l form enyeloDed in a cloak looms be-