University of Virginia Library

3. III.

We imagined that the throwing forward of our
brigade was the initial movement of a general
advance of the army; but that, as the reader
will remember, did not take place until the following
March. The Confederates had fallen back to
Centreville without firing a shot, and the National
troops were in possession of Lewinsville, Vienna,
and Fairfax Court-House. Our new position was
nearly identical with that which we had occupied
on the night previous to the battle of Bull Run,
— on the old turnpike road to Manassas, where
the enemy was supposed to be in great force.
With a field-glass we could see the Rebel pickets
moving in a belt of woodland on our right, and
morning and evening we heard the spiteful roll
of their snare-drums.

Those pickets soon became a nuisance to us.
Hardly a night passed but they fired upon our
outposts, so far with no harmful result; but after
a while it grew to be a serious matter. The

Rebels would crawl out on all-fours from the
wood into a field covered with underbrush, and
lie there in the dark for hours, waiting for a shot.
Then our men took to the rifle-pits,—pits ten or
twelve feet long by four or five deep, with the
loose earth banked up a few inches high on the
exposed sides. All the pits bore names, more or
less felicitous, by which they were known to their
transient tenants. One was called “The Pepper-Box,”
another “Uncle Sam's Well,” another
“The Reb-Trap,” and another, I am constrained
to say, was named after a not to be mentioned
tropical locality. Though this rude sort of
nomenclature predominated, there was no lack
of softer titles, such as “Fortress Matilda” and
“Castle Mary,” and one had, though unintentionally,
a literary flavor to it, “Blair's Grave,”
which was not popularly considered as reflecting
unpleasantly on Nat Blair, who had assisted in
making the excavation.

Some of the regiment had discovered a field of
late corn in the neighborhood, and used to boil a
few ears every day, while it lasted, for the boys
detailed on the night-picket. The corn-cobs were
always scrupulously preserved and mounted on

the parapets of the pits. Whenever a Rebel shot
carried away one of these barbette guns, there
was swearing in that particular trench. Strong,
who was very sensitive to this kind of disaster,
was complaining bitterly one morning, because
he had lost three “pieces” the night before.

“There's Quite So, now,” said Strong, “when
a Minie-ball comes ping! and knocks one of his
guns to flinders, he merely smiles, and does n't
at all see the degradation of the thing.”

Poor Bladburn! As I watched him day by
day going about his duties, in his shy, cheery
way, with a smile for every one and not an extra
word for anybody, it was hard to believe he was
the same man who, that night before we broke
camp by the Potomac, had poured out to me the
story of his love and sorrow in words that burned
in my memory.

While Strong was speaking, Blakely lifted
aside the flap of the tent and looked in on us.

“Boys, Quite So was hurt last night,” he
said, with a white tremor to his lip.

“What!”

“Shot on picket.”

“Why, he was in the pit next to mine,” cried
Strong.

“Badly hurt?”

“Badly hurt.”

I knew he was; I need not have asked the
question. He never meant to go back to New
England!

Bladburn was lying on the stretcher in the
hospital-tent. The surgeon had knelt down by
him, and was carefully cutting away the bosom
of his blouse. The Latin grammar, stained and
torn, slipped, and fell to the floor. Bladburn
gave me a quick glance. I picked up the book,
and as I placed it in his hand, the icy fingers
closed softly over mine. He was sinking fast.
In a few minutes the surgeon finished his examination.
When he rose to his feet there were
tears on the weather-beaten checks. He was a
rough outside, but a tender heart.

“My poor lad,” he blurted out, “it's no use.
If you've anything to say, say it now, for you've
nearly done with this world.”

Then Bladburn lifted his eyes slowly to the
surgeon, and the old smile flitted over his face as
he murmured,

“Quite so.”