Part 9

“Poor old Bob was lying on his face, in the room that had been his wife’s. His old army revolver lay smoking beside him, where it had fallen when he dropped. The blood was streaming from his head, and the first horrified glance showed me that the track of the bullet almost exactly followed the scar left by the splinter of shell that had bowled him over years before.

“The doctor went down upon his knees. Rapidly examining the bleeding wound, he looked up at me and said grimly, ‘This is bad business, Captain, bad business. But he’s failed in his undertaking. Nerves must have gone back on him. That was a glancing shot: it didn’t penetrate.’ He rapidly ran his eye around the room. ‘See where it went?’ he said, pointing to a ragged break in the plastering.

“We lifted Bob from the floor and laid him on the bed. The doctor went to work and stopped the bleeding, talking softly to me all the while. ‘I don’t like it at all,’ he said. ‘He’ll not die from this, but I’m in doubt about the effect it’ll have on his brain. It’s a nasty shock for a man in his over-wrought condition. Queer, isn’t it, that I should be patching up the same place that I worked over so long ago? He’s in for brain fever, poor devil! It’s a hard thing to say, Elliott, but I’m not sure that he wouldn’t have been luckier if his lead had gone straight in.’

“Well, the rest of the story can be told in few words. Bob didn’t die. The doctors pulled him safely through, and saved a life that might better have been allowed to slip away. For when the fever that followed upon the shock of the wound had burned itself out, the delirium remained, and all that was left of as fine a man as ever served was a hopelessly insane wreck.

“It’s twelve years since I’ve seen him. They wouldn’t let me come to visit him at the asylum, fearing that the sight of me might affect him unfavorably. Poor Bob! he’s been out of the world for all that time--waiting to wear out! From time to time I’ve had reports from the doctors, but never a cheering one until to-day, when I received a letter from Bob himself--and by the same mail got word that death had come at last to bring him his release.

“It seems that the end came very suddenly. There was a physical collapse, as if his vital machinery had run down all at once. But at the very last the cloud lifted from his mind, and before he died he had become, mentally, almost his old self. It was on his last afternoon that he dictated this letter to me.” The colonel leaned forward and took the envelope from his desk. “I’m going to read you a paragraph or two from it, because it concerns you, in a way.”

The colonel glanced at his two listeners. Van Sickles was smoking calmly, as is his wont. Pollard’s cigar had gone out, and he was bending forward in his chair, with his eyes expectantly fixed upon the chief. It was evident that he was not a little moved by what he had heard.

“Here’s what he says,” said the colonel, rapidly glancing through the contents of one sheet, and beginning to read from the second: “‘They tell me, Harry, that you’ve found it impossible to stay out of the service, even in these peaceful times, and that you’ve a command of your own--that it’s fallen to you to be at the head of the regiment that’s keeping our old name and number alive. If that’s true, I’ve a favor to ask from you. Don’t think it the whim of a madman, for it’s not. To come to it at once, I want a major’s escort when they put me away. It’s my soberly sane desire, and the last one that I shall have in this world. You’ll see that I’m not disappointed? I knew you would, and I’ll thank you in advance. Perhaps you’d do well to let the boys of the ‘Old Regiment’ know when and where the funeral will be: some of them might like to be there. But I’ll leave it all to you.’”

The colonel paused. His voice had become just the least bit unsteady. To cover his feelings he struck a match, but forgot to apply it to his cigar until it had burned down so far that he had to drop it hastily upon the floor.

“Is that all, sir?” asked Pollard, when the colonel stopped reading.

“Perhaps I might give you the last paragraph,” replied the chief huskily, again turning to the sheet that he held. “‘Good-bye, Harry,’ it runs. ‘I’m tiring fast, and the nurse says I must stop and rest. You’ll remember about the escort? I’ve no family left, and few friends, so I must look to you for everything. We’ll meet again sometime, I’ve a firm conviction. Things will be happier then, and brighter. So good-bye once more, old fellow, and God bless--.’” The colonel choked, and stopped abruptly.

Major Pollard pulled himself up from his chair. “Will you order out my battalion as escort, sir?” he asked earnestly. “I should consider it a great honor, and I’m sure that the men would look at it in the same way.”

“I hope you’ll find something for me to do,” began Van Sickles, coming towards the colonel’s desk. “I’d be glad to help in any way; about flowers, or music, or--”

“Thank you both,” said the chief, giving a hand to each. “I knew you’d help me out in this. Yes, I’ll order you out, Pollard. I’ll have the adjutant issue a special order at once. Perhaps you’d do well to speak to your company commanders about it now, before they dismiss. We’ll have the funeral on Sunday afternoon. I shall call on you, Van, for help in a number of little matters between now and then.”

Pollard left the room, going to pass word to his captains. The colonel and Van Sickles went to the staff-room, where the adjutant and sergeant major were wrestling with the never-ending “paper work” of regimental headquarters.

“Charley,” said the chief, as he came to the adjutant’s desk, “what was the number of the last regimental special order?”

“I think it was 48, sir,” said the adjutant, dragging the order-book from its resting place, and rapidly running over its pages. “Yes, 48 it was.”

“Then I’ll trouble you to make me out 49,” said the colonel. “Have it run something like this: ‘The 3rd Battalion will report to Major Pollard, on Sunday next, for the performance of escort duty at the funeral of Robert Hunnewell Sheldon, late major of this regiment when in the service of the United States, 1861-65.’”

* * * * *

It was a bright, warm Sunday. Against the cloudless sky the grim battlements of the armory towered up in bold relief. Upon the tiny flanking turret which caps one corner of the massive watch-tower, the half-masted flag hung down in drooping folds of white and red, unstirred by any passing breeze.

The streets were almost deserted. But within the great armory there was unwonted life and movement: and when the clocks of the city were striking the hour of three, the ponderous, iron-bound doors swung heavily apart, and, company by company, Major Pollard’s battalion of The Third came marching out, under the frowning archway and down the wide granite steps.

The major formed his command in line, facing the entrance. A moment later he brought the battalion to a “present,” faced about, and saluted, as six sergeants of the regiment came slowly down the steps, bearing out into the June sunlight a plain, black casket, which they placed in the waiting hearse.

Then came a handful of men in citizen’s dress, the survivors of the ‘Old Regiment’--grey-haired men, most of them, but all wearing proudly the bronze star, and the Maltese cross of their long-disbanded army corps. These were followed by the colonel and nearly all the officers of the active regiment, in full dress; for the story had spread through The Third, and--though the chief had expressed no formal wish--it somehow had become understood that he would be glad to have this mark of respect shown for the dead officer who had been his friend and comrade.

The escorting battalion moved to its position, the muffled drums of the field music began to beat, and the column, leaving the deserted armory to its Sunday quiet, slowly took up the march towards the elm-shadowed churchyard where, beside two low, green mounds, an open grave lay waiting.

The chaplain, book in hand, took his place beside the heap of freshly turned mould, ready to begin the recital of the solemn service for the dead. “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God to take unto Himself the soul of our brother here departed,” he read, slowly and distinctly, as the coffin was lowered gently to its resting place; “we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

The service ended, and the chaplain softly closed his book. Then came the commands for the firing, given in a tone strangely unlike that to which the men were accustomed. Three echoing volleys followed, telling those who chanced to hear that another soldier of the half-forgotten war had been laid at rest.

The blue-white smoke from the rifles, silvered here and there by shafts of sunlight, drifted lazily up through the branches of the overhanging elms: there was an interval of silence, finally broken by the mellow notes of a bugle thrilling out the bars of _Taps_, the soldier’s requiem; and then the escort broke into column and marched away, leaving the little knot of older men still standing in the shady churchyard.

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unpaired quotation marks were retained.

Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.

Redundant chapter titles have been deleted from this eBook.

Page 33: “break-off” probably is a misprint for “breaking off”