“Undoubtedly, Leonidas. They have shown folly, wasting the lives of such brave men in small efforts one after another. They will try something else.”
“I see a great many boats against the bank on their side of the river. I fancy they will use them in their next attempt, whatever it may be.”
“I agree with you. Good morning, Lieutenant Kenton. A mighty and appalling sight.”
“Truly it is, sir,” said Harry, saluting the two officers.
“The Yankees will force the passage,” said Colonel Talbot. “Our artillery is not strong enough to reply to their covering cannonade. We are glad to see you safe and whole, Harry. You’ll find your friends lying in that ravine just behind us.”
It was a rather deep ravine, and when Harry looked over its edge, St. Clair and Langdon greeted him gladly.
“Come down, Harry,” said Langdon, “and be joyful. This gully is pretty well dried out and you can rest. We’ve got a West Point fellow here and he’s humming one of his old songs to about the biggest chorus a song ever had. Captain Swayne, Lieutenant Kenton, once of the Invincibles, but now of General Jackson’s personal staff. Swayne’s from Tennessee, Harry, and you two are well met. Swayne belongs to a regiment a few yards beyond the gully. He was at the Seven Days and the Second Manassas. We three thought we won those battles ourselves, but it seems that Swayne was at both all the time, helping us. Take off your cap, Harry, and thank the gentleman.”
Swayne, a slender, fair man, not over twenty-three, smiled and extended a hearty hand, which Harry received with equal heartiness. The smile turned into a slight twinkle.
“I’ve been glad to meet your friends here, Mr. Kenton,” he said, “but the meeting has brought a disappointment with it.”
“How’s that?”
“Until we began talking I thought I had won the Seven Days and the Second Manassas all by myself. Now, it seems that I have to share the honors with you fellows.”
“So you do,” said Langdon, and then he sang:
“There comes a voice from Florida,
From Tampa’s lonely shore,
It speaks of one we’ve lost,
O’Brien is no more.
In the land of sun and flowers,
His head lies pillowed low,
No more he’ll drink the gin cocktail,
At Benjamin Haven’s, Oh!
At Benny Haven’s, Oh!
At Benny Haven’s, Oh!”
“Do I get it right, Swayne? Remember that I heard you sing it only three times.”
“Fine! Fine!” said Swayne with enthusiasm. “You have it right, or as near right as need be, and you’re using it in a much better voice than I can.”
“I’m a great soldier, but my true place is on the operatic stage,” said Langdon modestly.
“It’s an old West Point song of ours, Kenton,” said Swayne. “While I was lying here listening to the continued roar of all those great guns, I couldn’t keep from humming it as a sort of undernote.”
“This gully has a queer effect,” said St. Clair, who, lying on a blanket, was dusting every minute particle of dried mud from his uniform. “It seems to soften the sounds of all those guns-and they must be a couple of hundred at least. It produces a kind of harmony.”
“It’s the old god Vulcan and a thousand assistants of his hammering away on their anvils,” said Harry, “and they hammer out a regular tune.”
“Besides hammering out a tune,” said St. Clair, “they’re also hammering out swords and bayonets to be used against us.”
As he spoke he drew from his pocket a tiny round mirror, not more than three inches in diameter, and carefully examined the collar of his coat.
“Have you found a speck, Arthur?” asked Langdon. “If I hadn’t seen you risk your life fifteen or twenty thousand times I’d say you’re a dandy.”
“I am a dandy,” said St. Clair. “At least, I mean to be one, if I come out of the war alive.”
“What do you intend to wear?” asked Harry.
“Depends upon what I can afford. If I have the money, it’s going to be the best, the very best any market can afford.”
“A dozen suits, I suppose.”