The two sergeants in our own company who died in the service, one by sickness and the other in battle, were men of this sort, and one of the captains who fell in battle was a man whose Christian life was a benediction to the regiment.
But occasionally one met with what good people might consider strange inconsistencies. I have heard swearing euphemistically described as the utterance of "short prayers." One of our field officers was a man whose godly life was known to all, yet in intense moments short prayers of startling character would escape him.
On a Sunday, so it was said, a group of officers gathered in his tent fell into warm discussion of some troublesome regimental affair. The colonel paced back and forth with his hands behind him, taking no part in the conversation, but biting his bristly mustache, as was his wont when annoyed. Suddenly he stopped short and, facing them, exclaimed: "Well, gentlemen, let's stop this damned quibbling and go and worship God awhile." Then picking up his Bible, he strode off by himself into the woods, leaving his guests to their reflections.
Religious men were apt to be more intense in the army than at home, and those who frequented the prayer-meetings in the tents or, in pleasant weather, under the trees, will never forget their atmosphere of warm and solemn earnestness.
On the night before we stormed Maree's Hill, the moon shone through fleecy clouds and it was only partly dark. We lay in line of battle at rest, the most of us trying to sleep. Presently, out toward the front, between us and the skirmish line, voices were heard. The watchful major anxiously asked: "What is that? Who is talking out there in front?" One of the men answered, "Major, it is only some of the boys having a prayer-meeting;" and the Major says that instantly, in place of his fears and vexation, a feeling of deep thankfulness came over him as he thought of the prayers ascending for us all on the verge of battle.
There was a young soldier in our company to whom his mother, when she parted from him, gave a little book of daily Scripture selections. She said to him: " I have another just like this, and we will both read the same verses every day." The soldier kept true tryst with his absent mother, and, no matter where he was, read his text every day. As we lay in the sunken road on that fateful morning after the moonlight prayer-meeting, and the bullets began to speak their deadly whispers in our ears, and we were all feeling the chill and dread of the plunge into battle, he opened his little book. The text for the day was, "Fear not, for I am with thee: be not dismayed, for I am thy God!" He has told me that if a voice from heaven had spoken it could not have been more clear, and for the remainder of that terrible day all fear was gone.
We believed in our cause, in the war, and in final victory; but we were not soldiers for the love of it. The end of fighting and home was the goal of the hope of the army—a vain hope to thousands of us, yet the star that beckoned us all forward. How eagerly our thoughts turned northward might be seen on mail days. Letters came with varying regularity; in settled camp we could generally count on them, but in times of active campaign mails were uncertain, and when one arrived it was pathetic to see the wave of expectation that would sweep through the ranks. Often a cheer would go up when the postman, with mail bags slung across his horse, came in sight. Then there was impatient waiting until the letters for the company came down from headquarters, and an anxious crowd around the captain as he called them off. The disappointment of those who received none was often pitiful. You would hear one and another say: "Captain, isn't there one for me?" "Captain, are you sure? I know I ought to have one this time."
Then, tired and hungry as we were after the day's march, supper would go untasted until we could read the news from home; and long afterward by our camp-fires we would talk it over; and you might hear letterless Tom come to Bill and ask, "What does your wife say about my folks? Has she seen them lately? Are they all well?" The most of us would read our letters with quiet gladness; but now and then you might see some poor fellow bending with tear-stained face over his message from home, and hear his comrades saying in hushed tones of sympathy, "Jim has bad news; his little girl is dead."
The outgoing mail was far lighter than the incoming: we wrote under difficulties; yet there were times when the whole camp seemed filled with scribes. But our letters were apt to be brief, and when any important movement was at hand we knew that they would not be promptly forwarded. Inconvenient information sometimes traveled in army letters.
Our turn at picket duty was, with some
