Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 November 1888 — HE CAME AS A FRIEND. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HE CAME AS A FRIEND.

A Story of the Wilderness Campaign. BY LIEUTENANT WHYLAND.

T was near midnight on the night of the sixth of May, 18G4, i that I sat brooding over my camp-fire after a day’s hard [fighting at the “Wilderness.” It will be remembered that this was the second day of that memora-

ble and bloody battle, and that from the dawn of the fifth until sunset of the sixth (according to history) fifteen thousand men were slaugtered in both armies; nor did the firing then entirely cease on the picket lines, for the occasional crack of a musket gave evidence that the pickets of both armies were on the alert, watching for an opportunity to do bodily harm to any one who exposed his person. That night I was detailed for picket duty and was stationed in front of our corps, not far from a point where the woods were said to be on fire; indeed, the smoke of the burning had already reached us; but as we were informed that the dead and wounded had all been removed we gave the subject no thought, knowing that beyond a thorough smoking, perhaps, it could do us no harm. I had gone back into the wood a short distance and built a little fire to cook coffee for my comrade and myself—having b?en fortunate enough to purchase a canteen of water from a passing soldier—and was rejoicing over the prospect of a feast fit for a king—-hard-tack and coffee. While waiting for the water to boil I had sat down, and, as I have stated, was brooding over my feeble fire, and being weary, it is just possible that I fell asleep. Whether asleep or awake, the following visions passed before my mind: I was up North among my friends and acquaintances and was warmly greeted. There was rejoicing on every hand, for the “cruelwar was over,” and the “flag of our Union” floated over the whole country, its honor no longer divided with another. Bonfires were burning, cannons were booming, and orators were shouting themselves hoarse, while bands were blowing “Hail Columbia” and “The Star-Spangled Banner” to tatters. In fact, the whole country had gone mad with joy. I was re* ceived everywhere as a hero, and proudly walked at the head of long processions in my thread-bare uniform, far prouder than a king in his robes of purple and gold. Then the scene suddenly changed. The year was 1862; I stood before a humble cottage, a cottage covered with trailing vines and flowers, but the fairest flower of all stood in the doorway, and, extending her hand, greeted me warmly. This was heaping coals of fire on my head, for I had scarcely been true to her; still I was not untrue, only a little wayward, that was all. Then she talked of parting, as she had on a former occasion, and gave the young soldier excellent advice, cautioning him against all excess“and, above all things, be true to your country, truer than yon have been to me. You are now going where you will know something of the realities of war, something of a soldier's life divested of tinsel and gold. Bealities will meet you on every hand, cold as the steel" of your sword, and as broad as the woimd in our country’s heart.” The next moment her fine lip curled and her manner towards me changed,

and in place of soothing words, the last parting was disfigured by sour looks and upbraiding—in short, we parted in anger. This was a true pic- , ture of the parting which burned into my heart, and this was the mountain of l ad that I had carried in my breast for many a day. How long I slept I know not, but I was rudely awakened by the grinding step of a man on the pine needles ami the rustling of dogwood bushes. ■ On opening jny eyes, I saw the head | and shoulders of a man peering over I the low bushes near me. Although he [ wore ths blue uniform, I at once felt suspicious, and, covering him with my revolver, called out: “Halt!” “Who i comes here, and why do you come?” I demanded with considerable energy, adding, “Why are you not with your comrades?” lat once ordered him to advance, and when he stepped into the feeble fire-light, I saw at a glance that his lower garments were gray, and at once jumped to the conclusion that my former suspicions were well grounded, for he was a Confederate, and an officer“Jest drop your weapon, stranger. Although not a friend, I come as a friend, and I put these things on” (pointing to his coat and cap) “in order that I might get through the lines and reach yer. I’m no traitor, nor ghost, nor goblin damned, nor about to be damned.” Dropping all idiom, he said: “I beard you in your den; I have no fear; I am no hireling, nor am I a traitor to my country or her cause, and what is more, I am not a spy upon you or yours. I come in peace, if you will, but can defend myself if I must.” “You’re a spy,” I angrily exclaimed, “and I arrest you as such; and, furthermore, I will see that you are shot some fine morning at sunrise. ” A sarcastic smile curled his lips as I spoke, and he boldly answered: “To die for one’s country is sweet; but there is one dying over yonder who is not of us, nor of "you uns,’ as the soldiers say. Put up your weapons, comrade, and hear me; after hearing my tale, slay me if you will, I shall be resigned. I’ve been over yonder, amid the smoldering broom and needles and falling branches; have walked along the ragged edge of battle, where Death stalked boldly. I was searching for a comrade, but found him not. The ‘heartless Johnnies,’ as ‘you uns’ call us, removed them all to a place of safety, at least all that could be found and reached. But there was one left, and as I was crossing a branch near a spring I sa w him, a soldier in blue. The fire had nearly reached him, in fact it was actually leaping from branch to branch above him; but he was unconscious—he knew not of his approaching fate. One beautiful white hand lay in the tiny stream, and the left hand, gloved, held a locket tightly clasped. I saw at a glance that he was sorely wounded, perhaps dying, but the closed eyes gave hope of life. I stooped, and, placing my hand on his heart, saw that le was not dead, only exhausted, perraps from loss of blood, perhaps from overexertion in attempting to reach the stream. Why a soldier in the teeth of battle should wear gloves was a mystery, but this question I laid aside for future solution, resolving at present to do all in my power for the poor unfortunate at my feet. “As I pressed my hand on his heart he opened his eyes, and such eyes—l have seen them only once in a lifetime—they were the eyes of a woman; the soft gazelle-like eyes of a mother or sister, borrowed to do battle for his country, for such eyes would wound more men than musket balls. When I hurriedly put my canteen to his lips he smiled, then I lifted him carefully and carried him to a place of safety and laid him down as tenderly as though he were my sweetheart. “As he felt the pressure of the earth he groaned, and almost immediately fainted. Then his gloved hands relaxed and the locket fell to earth, opening as it fell. I paid no attention to this at the time, as I was very anxious to bring him back to life and learn his name, his regiment and his corps, if possible. I was somewhat selfish in this, to be sure, because I would that, under like circumstances, the blue should-treat the gray in the same manner. “I administered such restoratives as I had on my person, and in a few moments was rewarded by seeing him slowly revive, but he was very feeble. I saw that life with him was short, and if I would learn anything of his history I must be active as well as discreet. “On becoming stronger his gloved hand began groping, as for a lost treasure, and I will own that, by the light of my feeble torch, I watched him curiously. Presently his hand closed on the locket, and I saw the miniature. Let me whisper in your ear, my friend, that it was not the face of a woman that looked out upon me, but the wellknown features pf a soldier. The truth dawned upon me at once. She had followed some unworthy lover—for no man is, or ever can be, worthy such a woman—preferring death, even courting death, rather than to suffer the pangs of disappointment. “Young man, I have little more to tell. What passed between us none will ever know. I have but another word for you, then s ?nd a bullet through my heart if you can. The sun picture in the locket was the picture of a veteran, of a true soldier; the face was yours. Follow me!” So saying he plunged into the wood, and I, in desperation, followed, my mind harrowed the while with all sorts of misgivings and imaginings. A thought, like a ghost, flew into my mind, asking if this was not a plot, the plan being to work upon my feelings with this weird tale until I was so wrought upon that I would, like a bird,

fly directly into the cage of the serpent and become an easy prey? I could scarcely believe this of a soldier, even if he was a Confederate,, and I felt that I would sooner question my sanity than quest on the honor of a true soldier. As I followed his rapidly retreating form, what a world of feeling surged through my heart. Little by little the solemn truth dawned upon me, but I was so obtuse that I refused to receive it, even when coming upon me with such terrible force. And still I confidingly followed. Soon we came to a place where a torch was burning feebly, and there in its flickering light, clothed in her regal beauty, lay the “Pearl of Almont,” wounded, even unto death. It is useless for me to attempt a description of my feelings; but I will say that the cloud of sorrow that swept over me was blacker than the ink with which I write and heavier than, the woe of death. There are sorrow's of earth too deep for human sympathy; then the soul springs with one gigantic bound to the Infinite. Irreligious as I was, I fervently exclaimed, “God pity me;” to which the Confederate gently responded, “Amen.” When I reached her she was walking very near the portals of eternity; she had scarcely strength to recognize me, only a feeble smile and a halfbreathed word, “Followed,” gave evidence of her truth. On the following morning a file of soldiers with trailing muskets and muffled drums bore the “Pearl” away, and I, the only mourner, sadly followed. As I was about taking the train for the far North, a gentleman placed his hand upon my shoulder and said: “He is at peace with all the world and his God.” So saying, he passed quickly out of sight; but I had recognized my Confederate friend, and sent after him a fervent “God bless you.” And now, let me say, should these lines ever reach his eye, he will recognize in them the hand of the “brown Lieutenant,” and again receive his thanks for invaluable favors. A brown shaft in the country churchyard stands sentry over her grave, and thereon is engraved the following: “She is at peace with all the world and her God. ” This is far better than to mingle with the dust as an “unknown;” but for the privilege of knowing where she rests I am under the greatest obligations to an officer in the Confederate army. “A man as true as ever wore the Union blue.”