“Everything’s calm,” said the lieutenant-colonel, “and apparently liable to stay so. I’ve been through the whole brigade—’way down to the cavalry quarters, and back through the gunners’ and infantry camps—and the peacefulness of things reminds me of the old nursery jingle,

Well, this tour of mine’s been an easy one. I’ve been under canvas with the old brigade for just nineteen rolling years, and so when I say that this camp walks right away with the trophy for quietness, I’m speaking by the card.”

“Wouldn’t it be a pious idea if we were to turn in, then?” inquired the adjutant, adding to his remark a suggestive and very audible yawn. “Field officers of the day aren’t supposed to sit up all night—at least, not in time of peace. I’m feeling just a wee bit sleepy myself.”

Midnight had come and gone. The camp lay silent, its snowy tents looming out dimly in the faint, midsummer starlight. Not a murmur hinted at the presence of the three thousand sleeping men hidden away beneath the shimmering whiteness of the canvas. The sleepy sentry pacing slowly to and fro before regimental headquarters seemed only a deeper shade in the shadowy picture. His measured tread upon the dew-dampened turf roused no echo.

There came into view a spectral shape, striding rapidly towards the quarters of the non-commissioned staff. “Hi!” called the lieutenant-colonel softly. “Hi! that you, Sam?”

At this challenge the spectre changed its course and approached the adjutant’s tent, in front of which, and under the protecting fly, the two officers were sitting. “Yes, it’s me,” answered the voice of the veteran orderly of The Third. “That you, Col’n’l Wentworth? Anything I can do for ye?”

“I’d be glad to know why you’re prowling ’round at this time of night,” said the lieutenant-colonel mildly. “You’re old enough to be setting the boys a better example.”

“I judge ye’re correct, Col’n’l,” assented Sam, still standing attention in front of the tent. “I’d oughter be in quarters. But down in B Comp’ny’s street I run’d onto a feller that was in the war. Now, them fellers is gittin’ scarcer’n honest men in the city gov’nment, an’ so it follered that we got to yarnin’, give an’ take, turn an’ turn about, ’til we clean lost track o’ the time.”

It might be well to mention here that Sam is the privileged character of the Third Infantry. It has been explained elsewhere how Colonel Elliott discovered the old man enjoying his well-earned otium cum dig. in the Soldiers’ Home, down at Old Point. It also has been told how, by a risky bit of work, back in ’64, he won the Medal of Honor which he wears upon the breast of his dress-coat. To be sure, he guesses, “Bein’ nothin’ but copper, ’taint worth much”—but by the rest of the Old Regiment it is held at a somewhat higher valuation.

Now, the customs of The Third do not tend to encourage the spinning of yarns by enlisted men in officers’ quarters, but to this well-established rule there is one exception. That exception is made in favor of Sam. And since his webs of fact and fancy are woven, for the most part, after darkness has descended upon the face of the earth, the breach of service etiquette is not sufficiently evident to be demoralizing. All of which is explanatory.

The adjutant stepped back into the depths of his tent, and presently returned with a fistful of cigars and an extra camp-stool. “Set ye, Sam,” said he, appropriating one of the veteran’s pet idioms. “Set ye, and lend a hand at smudging out mosquitoes.”

The old orderly borrowed a light from the lieutenant-colonel, and seated himself, with his elbows resting upon his knees and his hands comfortably clasped before him. “I’ve bin a-thinkin’,” said he, “how this milishy business has changed since I was a boy. Never happened to see an ol’-fashioned muster, did ye? Nat’rally not. Ah, them was the days o’ plumes an’ swords, an’ gingerbread an’ rum, an’ genuine patriotism!”

The adjutant, forgetting the darkness, winked at the lieutenant-colonel. Wentworth rose, stepped outside for a final survey of the sleeping-camp, and then returned to his place. “There were giants in those days, eh?” he said, turning up the collar of his great-coat.

“Yes, ther’ was,” said Sam, impressively, “ther’ was indeed. An’ giant-killers, too. Ol’ Col’n’l Leatherbee was a giant. You’d oughter seen him! Six-foot-two, he was. My land! he was a rare sight when he was in his milishy togs, with his boots an’ spurs, an’ his buff breeches, an’ his blue coat with buff facin’s, an’ his flamin’ red sash, an’ his terruble long sword, an’ his high shako, with the wavin’ plume a-top an’ the soarin’ brass eagle on the front of it.” Sam paused for lack of breath.

“An’ Maj’r Otis Prouty was another giant,” he continued. “I’ve told ye how the Maj’r trounced ol’ Col’n’l Leatherbee, up to Lond’nderry muster. No? Oh, that was a tremenjous battle,” he chuckled softly to himself, “a tremenjous battle while it lasted.”

“So?” queried the adjutant. “Was it the custom for junior field-officers to thump their chiefs?”

“Gen’rally, no,” said Sam. “As a rule ’twa’nt a safe undertakin’, ’cause the men that rose up to be col’n’ls was men that run’d to pritty large sizes. Ol’ Leatherbee was a man o’ consid’able breadth an’ heft. But he was some lackin’ in sperrit. O-ho! he cert’nly was lackin’ o’ gimp. An’ the time when Otis Prouty tipped him over was only one o’ two times that he was downed with all four p’ints a-touchin’. For ther’ was another time ’sides that ’un.” And here the old gunner again laughed softly over some remembrance.

“I guess I’ll have to tell ye. ’Twas like this: the ol’ Col’n’l, a’ter runnin’ in single harness for nigh onto fifty year, had to go an’ git himself married. Not that ’twa’n’t right for him to do’t; the Scriptures has established the principle that ’taint well for man to be alone. Only, mistakes sometimes happens. An’ Col’n’l Leatherbee added one more mistake to the list when he went an’ had himself mattermonially yoked with Tildy Pettus. By doin’ which he shown the beauty o’ the tex’ which states that fools goes a-rushin’ in where angels is ’fraid o’ bein’ entertained unawares. “I said, didn’t I, that ol’ Leatherbee was a giant? Wal, Tildy, she was a giant-killer! ’Fore she was promoted to the command o’ the Col’n’l’s establishment she used to be a school-ma’am. An’ if she didn’t rule her little, red-painted institution o’ learnin’ with a rod of iron ’twas only ’cause birch-rods come cheaper an’ handier, besides bein’, when sci’ntifically applied to youthful students, more blisterin’ than iron in a highly-het condition. Oh, she made a great name for herself as a discipliner, an’ when she quit teachin’, the boys an’ girls o’ that time felt that life still had some sweetness left for the down-trodden an’ oppressed. They likewise made existence a burnin’ torment for the nex’ teacher, which happened to be a dyspepsic striplin’ from somewheres down-country.

“Now, Tildy Pettus—I mean Mis’ Col’n’l Leatherbee—were ’thout doubt a good looker. She wa’n’t tall; the ol’ Col’n’l useter say, ‘She aint long for this world’—meanin’ that she stood ’bout five-foot-three in her high-heeled slippers. Her cheeks was quite red an’ attractive, an’ she was plump an’ wholesome to the eye. But ther’ useter be a kind o’ furrow that’d crease itself down ’twixt her eyebrows when things didn’t go just to suit her, an’ when that occurred, which wa’n’t unfrequent, them that knew her took it for a sign that ’twas ’bout time to display the better part o’ valor—which, so we’re told, is discretion. For Tildy had a tongue—a sharp ’un—an’ a copious dictionary to draw words from when the sperrit moved her to the usin’ on ’em.

“Not that, in speakin’ o’ the sharpness o’ the female tongue, I’m castin’ any reflections on wimmin-kind as such,” explained Sam. “Lor’ knows I’ve been admirin’ wimmin more or less for better’n half a century. But some on ’em, havin’ tongues o’ great keenness, makes remarks which cuts most distressful. An’ yet, if female tongues be keen, the male tongue often is blunt; an’ I haint yet quite made up my mind whether it hurts the worst to be cut by a sharp tongue or bruised black-an’-blue by a blunt ’un. It’s some’at a’ter the fashion o’ politics—‘Both the Old Parties has grave defec’s in their make-up.’

“Wal, Mis’ Leatherbee settled down as commandin’ officer o’ the big, white house wherein the Col’n’l hitherto had reigned alone, in fancy meditatin’ free. An’ lackin’ her former exercise o’ disciplinin’ scholars, an’ havin’ no childern of her own to put through a course o’ sprouts, she fell into the way o’ providin’ herself with amusement by a-teachin’ her husband of his P’s an’ Q’s. An’ this was very entertainin’ for the both on ’em. For she’d bin used to seein’ her dear little pupils set up an’ take notice when she spoke to ’em; while the Col’n’l—wal, he’d bin accustomed to doin’ pritty much whatever he darn’ pleased, an’ furthermore had got well sot in the habit. However, like most men that gits married late in life, he was fond of his wife, an’ when she didn’t go for to nag him too hard they managed to jolt along together well’s most married folks.

“Now, one o’ the Col’n’l’s pet habits, I must tell ye, was to employ a consid’able share of his evenin’s, durin’ the winter, in settin’ into a congenial cotery which was in the way o’ gatherin’ themselves together ’round the fire-place at the ta-avern. He were a man o’ some prom’nence in them parts, an’ what he said carried great weight, he havin’ bin to the legislatur’ for a couple o’ terms, an’ havin’ bin selec’man time out o’ mind, ’sides havin’ held ’most every title in the milishy ’ceptin’ jigadier-brindle—which is what the boys useter call the brigadier gen’ral. So his remarks nat’rally was received with great respec’, an’ when he explained the strategematical mistakes that was made by both sides durin’ the Revolution an’ the War of 1812, ther’ wa’n’t no one that felt called upon to set up a very vehemient opinion to the contrariwise. ’Specially while he was a-settin’ up o’ the rum, which, for to give him his dues, he done as a rule, an’ freely; sometimes so freely that when it come breakin’-up time, both him an’ his constituents would be a-showin’ sympt’ms o’ coagulation o’ the speech.

“From all o’ which it follers that in some ways ol’ Leatherbee was the darn’est man ye ever seen. Which bein’ so, his wife must o’ necess’ty bin the nex’ to the darn’est. In the first place, ’twa’n’t proper nor ’cordin’ to the rules o’ polite behavior for him, havin’ saturated his system with ol’ Santy Crooze extracts, to go home an’ try to convince Mis’ Leatherbee that, if he’d bin in command o’ the American forces, the maraudin’ British wouldn’t never’ve had occasion to make a hollowcost o’ the city o’ Washin’ton; because she, not bein’ a soldier, couldn’t be expected to take no int’rest in topics o’ them kind, ’specially at the untimely hour o’ night at which they usually was brought up for her consid’ration. And which bein’ all granted, ’twa’n’t, in the second place, hardly good taste on her part to address such remarks to her errin’ spouse as she sometimes allowed herself for to do; ’cause, if he wa’n’t her superior, he cert’nly was her senior. An’ no man o’ proper respec’ for himself enjoys bein’ called, earnest-like, a ’sozzlin’ soak.’ This ye may set down for a fac’, sure’s ye’re a foot high.

“P’raps I’m goin’ too heavy into details, an’ not figgerin’ my account down to a p’int fine enough to match the lateness o’ the hour. But I’ve told ye enough, anyways, to make it evident that the affairs o’ the Leatherbee household was runnin’ along in a fashion that was bound to wind up in a climax sometime. An’ finally the climax come, the arrival of it bein’ somewhat in thiswise:

“’Twas on a terruble stormy night, ’long towards the end o’ Jan’ary. The ol’ Col’n’l had went down to the ta-avern uncommon early, an’ had evened things up by stayin’ more’n respectable late. So when he fin’lly got himself boosted out’n his chair by the fire, an’ started off to go home, clean to t’other end o’ the town, the clock in the steeple o’ the Orthodox church had got through with the business o’ knockin’ out midnight an’ was a-puttin’ up its hands to strike the next hour which might happen to come along that way, feelin’ confident, as ye might say, that it could send it to sleep in one round.

“‘Col’n’l,’ says the ol’ man to himself, as he went ploughin’ along through the snow, ‘Col’n’l, ye have tarried too long with the serpint which do lurk in the wine-cup.’ This, however, wa’n’t stric’ly true, ’cause ther’ hadn’t bin no wine at all connected with the evenin’s entertainment, he havin’ confined his attention exclusive to rum-an’-molasses.

“‘Col’n’l Leatherbee,’ says he again, a little further on, ‘I’ve sore misgivin’s in regards to the reception that’s a-waitin’ ye yonder.’ It was a great trick o’ the ol’ man’s to talk to himself when a-laborin’ under stimulous excitement. But he always done it respectful, never allowin’ himself to forgit the position in the community which he held. At the proper time an’ place he was able an’ willin’ to swear the legs off’n an iron pot; but he never swore at himself, nor at his wife, neither.

“‘I must be firm in the hour of adversity,’ says he, when he had steered himself far’s his own gate. ‘“Budge not, lest ye be budged” shall be my motter. I will be silent under the wrath to come. It is written that strong waters run deep; I will run deep also.’ This is what he actu’lly said. I know it, because the ol’ man had bin talkin’ in a very deep tone, so’s to give himself all the courage possible, an’ the lan’lord o’ the ta-avern heard every blessed word, he havin’ follered the Col’n’l far’s his door, to make sure that he didn’t lay himself down to slumber in no snow-drift, arguin’ that he were too valuable a customer to be careless of.

“Wal, Col’n’l Leatherbee navigated careful acrost the door-yard, leavin’ a trail as crooked as if’t had bin made by the serpint which he’d mentioned, but the beautiful snow come down an’ covered the tracks, so’s they shouldn’t set the neighbors to talkin’ next mornin’. An’ that was the last seen o’ the Col’n’l, that night, by any mortal eye ’ceptin’ his wife’s. However, the rest o’ what I’m goin’ to tell ye sets on a pritty good foundation, for it comes direc’ from Mis’ Leatherbee herself, she havin’ bin so tickled by the subsequence of events that she just couldn’t keep her mouth shet, an’ had to go trottin’ over to tell the whole story to her nex’ best friend. By which channels the report was duly an’ officially promulgated.

“After wrastlin’ successful with the latch o’ the door, the ol’ man ushered himself into the house. An’ then, havin’ pulled off his boots an’ dumped his big coat, snow an’ all, down onto the floor, he slipped into the sleepin’-room an’ begun to diverge himself from the rest of his clothin’. Everythin’ went fust-rate for a while, not a whisper comin’ from the big four-posted bedstid to disturb his nerves. But Mis’ Leatherbee was just layin’ low, like a masked batt’ry. An’ all of a sudden she opened onto him.

“My gor-ri! She begun with solid shot, an’ then changed off onto percussion shell, an’ fin’lly started a-servin’ out canister. The tempest outside had bin doin’ tol’able lively work up to this p’int; but when Mis’ Leatherbee got fairly het up to the occasion the wind give a last despairin’ howl, an’ went switchin’ down the valley an’ into the nex’ township, like it owned up that it wa’n’t runnin’ no opposition to the rumpus she was a-raisin.’

“The ol’ Col’n’l, he were took completely by su’prise, bein’, as it were, off’n his guard. He’d bin expectin’ a to-do o’ some sort, but the rakin’ he was a-gettin’ went clean beyond his most cheerful calculations. For a minute he stood stock an’ still in his tracks, plumb dumb-foundered. An’ then his knees got wobbly, an’ he sot down suddin on the floor, for to collec’ his idees.

“So far it had bin a jug-handled discussion—meanin’ that all the talkin’ had bin on one side. An’ as the ol’ man sot ther’ a-rummagin’ for thoughts, he come acrost his original plan, layin’ tucked away safe an’ sound under the roof of his head, an’ recollected that he wa’n’t a-goin’ to say nothin’, no matter what happened.

“But, ’stid of abatin’, the roarin’ whirlwind of abuse kep’ growin’ stronger, an’ the Col’n’l kind o’ lost sight”— “S-st!” broke in the adjutant, raising his hand, and leaning forward. “Hear anything?”

“Yes; sabres a-clinkin’,” answered Sam promptly, cocking his head to one side and peering out into the gloom. “Ye can’t fool me on that sound; I’ve heard it too often, farther south than we be now. Guess likely it’s the provo’s.”

The lieutenant-colonel stepped out from beneath the tent-fly, and went to meet a little squad which was making its way up from the left of the line. After a moment’s parley he returned to the tent, and the shadowy group moved on, the clank of the sabres sounding more faintly as the troopers vanished into the darkness. “Two of the provost-guard, running in a tramp found asleep back of the cavalry stables,” he explained, as he seated himself. “Proceed with your fiction, Sam.”

“Queer, how them tramps always hang ’round volunteer camps, aint it?” said Sam. “Ther’ aint nothin’ in it for ’em, ’ceptin’ the guard-house if they happens to git collared. An’ yit they turn up reg’lar, year in an’ year out. Must be they’re sent providentially for to give practice to the provo’s. Le’ me see; where was I? O, yes; ye left we two a-settin’ here, an’ ol’ Col’n’l Leatherbee a-settin’ on the floor of his bedroom, waitin’ for the clouds to roll by. Wal, I’ll proceed, but not with no fiction; what I’m given’ ye is solemn an’ sacred fac’s.

“The clouds in the Leatherbee mansion, ’stid o’ rollin’ by, kep’ growin’ heavier an’ blacker, an’ Mis’ Leatherbee’s stock of ammunition didn’t show no signs o’ runnin’ low. So fin’lly the ol’ Col’n’l’s dander begun to come up, an’ ’fore he knew it, he’d forgot that he were goin’ to suffer all things in uncomplainin’ silence.

“‘Mis’ Leatherbee,’ says he, ‘my dear mad’m, like the wintry snow, we are driftin’—hic!—driftin’ apart. At the present moment we’re as far apart’s the two ends of a stick. Which means bein’ sep’rated as widely’s the feeble human intellec’ can conceive.’ Now, anybody with eleven idees to the inch might have seen that the ol’ man wa’n’t in no condition to pass remarks with his good lady; but, oncet havin’ got fair started, he progressed right along, regardless o’ the fac’ that he were violatin’ the agreement he’d made with himself previous. “‘’Tis best that we should end this painful interview,’ he says, a-climbin’ up onto his mutinous legs. ‘Alas! ther’ aint but one way, an’ that a awful—hic!—awful gashly one! But ye’ve drove me to’t. I ther’fore bid ye farewell, Mis’ Leatherbee. I also trust that your few remainin’ years may be cheered by no remorse. Your very respectful an’ obedient servant, Nathan Leatherbee, Col’n’l commandin’ Tenth Reg’ment Milishy.’ This may sound ridic’lous, but it’s word for word what the ol’ man said. Honest! His brain was so shooken-up by the razzlin’ he’d bin gittin’ that he truly couldn’t tell whether he were makin’ of a speech or writin’ of an official letter.

“Wal, bein’ more or less firm established on his feet, he zig-zagged himself out into the kitchen, his house follerin’ the plan o’ most country houses o’ that time, an’ havin’ a thunderin’ big kitchen, with a lot o’ rooms openin’ out of it. Here he sashayed over to the cupb’d, an’ took out a slashin’ big carvin’ knife, an’ begun to whet it up on the steel which went with it, makin’ more noise than a hay-maker puttin’ an edge onto his scythe. Mis’ Leatherbee had stopped talkin’, an’ ’twas plain to be seen that she were a-listenin’ to the proceedin’s.

“The ol’ Col’n’l fixed the knife to suit him, an’ then slipped into the closet an’ fetched out a ham which happened to be there, settin’ it down careful-like onto the table. ‘Mis’ Leatherbee, do ye relent?’ says he in a solemn tone. If she did, she didn’t say so. ‘Ther’s yet time, ma’am,’ says he, pausin’ for a reply. Not a word come from the bedroom; the silence was truly appallin’. ‘Once more, then,’ says he, in a chokin’ voice, ‘an’ for the last time, farewell!’ An’, with that, he plunked the carvin’ knife into the ham, with a sick’nin’ chug, give a fearful groan, an’ flopped down heavy onto the floor.

“Now, ’twas gol-dum cold out ther’ in the kitchin, an’, as I told ye, the Col’n’l had dispensed with most of his clothin’ before bein’ drove to the committin’ of his rash deed. Consequently, after layin’ ther’ in the dark for a minute, he begun to have chills, an’, to keep his teeth from chatterin’, he had to groan some more, which he done this time in good earnest. But Mis’ Leatherbee staid comfortable in bed. “Wal, fin’lly Col’n’l Leatherbee give a combination o’ groan an’ gasp an’ guggle that fair rattled the dishes on the closet shelves. An’ then his wife speaks up, an’ says, says she, ‘Aint ye dead yet, Mister Leatherbee?’ To which he answered, truthful, ‘No; but I’m tormented nigh to bein’!’—‘Hurry up an’ die, then,’ says she, ‘I want to be gittin’ to sleep.’ An’ he heard her turnin’ over in bed, an’ smoothin’ down her piller.

“That was the last straw that done the giant-killin’ business. The ol’ man riz up slow, leavin’ the murdered ham layin’ in its gore on the table, an’ sneaked back into the bedroom, an’ crawled in under the quilts, feelin’ smaller’n a cent’s worth o’ soap a’ter a week’s hard washin’. An’, for oncet in her life, Mis’ Leatherbee had sense enough to hold her raspin’ tongue, an’ let her husband go to sleep in peace.”

“Here comes the relief,” said the lieutenant-colonel, as the sentinel at headquarters advanced to meet an approaching knot of men, and sharply challenged, “Halt! Who’s there?”

“Whew! then it’s two o’clock,” said Sam, hastily rising. “Who’d have thought it? This aint no sort o’ way for a man o’ my age to be a-keepin’ his roses fresh.”

“Any moral in all that?” asked the adjutant, rising in his turn.

“No; nor nothin’ un-moral, neither,” chuckled the veteran, raising his hand to his cap in parting salute. “Which, in these days, is good guarantee that ’twont never be printed. Wal, good-night to ye.”