Bertrand excused himself presently and went away.
“Arthur,” said Harry, “I wouldn’t argue with him. He’s a captain in the Invincibles now, and you’re a lieutenant. It’s in his power to make trouble for you.”
“You’re not appealing to any emotion in me that might bear the name of fear, are you, Harry?”
“You know I’m not. Why argue with a man who has fire on the brain? Although he’s older than you, Arthur, he hasn’t got as good a rein on his temper.”
“You can’t resist flattery like that, can you, Arthur? I know I couldn’t,” said Happy Tom, grinning his genial grin.
St. Clair’s face relaxed.
“You’re right, fellows,” he said. “We oughtn’t to be quarreling among ourselves when there are so many Yankees to fight.”
Mail forwarded from Richmond was distributed in the camp the next day and Harry was in the multitude gathered about the officers distributing it. The delivery of the mail was always a stirring event in either army, and as the war rolled on it steadily increased in importance.
There were men in this very group who had not heard from home since they left it two years before, and there were letters for men who would never receive them. The letters were being given out at various points, but where Harry stood a major was calling them in a loud, clear voice.
“John Escombe, Field’s brigade.”
Escombe, deeply tanned and twenty-two, ran forward and received a thick letter addressed in a woman’s handwriting, that of his mother, and, amid cheering at his luck, disappeared in the crowd.
“Thomas Anderson, Gregg’s brigade. Girl’s handwriting, too. Lucky boy, Tom.”
“Hey, Tom, open it and show it to us! Maybe her picture’s inside it! I’ll bet she’s got red hair!”
But Tom fled, blushing, and opened his letter when he was at a safe distance.
“Carlton Ives, Thomas’ brigade.”
“In hospital, Major, but I’ll take the letter to him. He’s in my company.”
“Stephen Brayton, Lane’s brigade.”
There was a silence for a moment, and then some one said:
“Dead, at Antietam, sir.”
The major put the letter on one side, and called:
“Thomas Langdon, the Invincibles.”
Langdon darted forward and seized his letter.
“It’s from my father,” he said as he glanced at the superscription, although it was half hidden from him by a mist that suddenly appeared before his eyes.
“Here, Tom, stand behind us and read it,” said Harry, who was waiting in an anxiety that was positively painful for a letter to himself.
“Henry Lawton, Pender’s brigade,” called the major. “This is from a girl, too, and there is a photograph inside. I can feel it. Wish I could get such a letter myself, Henry.”
Lawton, his letter in his hand, retreated rapidly amid envious cheers.
“Charles Carson, Lane’s brigade.”
“Dead at Fredericksburg, sir; I helped to bury him.”
“Thomas Carstairs, Field’s brigade.”
“Killed at the Second Manassas, sir.”
“Richard Graves, Archer’s brigade.”
“Died in hospital after Antietam, sir.”
“David Moulton, Field’s brigade.”
“Killed nearly a year ago, in the valley, sir.”
“William Fitzpatrick, Lane’s brigade.”
“Taken prisoner at Antietam. Not yet exchanged, sir.”
“Herbert Jones, Pender’s brigade.”
“Killed at South Mountain, sir.”
Harry felt a little shiver. The list of those who would never receive their letters was growing too long. But this delivery of the mail seemed to run in streaks. Presently it found a streak of the living. It was a great mail that came that day, the largest the army had yet received, but the crowd, hungry for a word from home, did not seem to diminish. The ring continually pressed a little closer.
St. Clair received two letters, and, a long while afterwards, there was one for Dalton, who, however, had not been so long a time without news, as the battlefield was his own state, Virginia. Harry watched them with an envy that he tried to keep down, and after a while he saw that the heap of letters was becoming very small.
His anxiety became so painful that it was hard to bear. He knew that his father had been in the thick of the great battle at Stone River, but not a word from him or about him had ever come. No news in this case was bad news. If he were alive he would certainly write, and there was Confederate communication between Eastern Tennessee and Northern Virginia.