“Some events are counterbalanced by others, seemingly, and the result is nothing; but every event is important to some life.”

“Captain, Youmans says he got to the top of the hill over yonder, and that we could have occupied it but that our men were recalled.”

“It would have made little difference,” said he.  “The enemy would only have intrenched farther off.  I dare say they are digging at this moment.”

Then he said, “Go back to your place, Jones, and never fail to do your full duty.  I am serious, because war is serious.  The more we have to do, the more must we nerve ourselves to do it.  We must collect all our energies, and each man must do the work of two.  Impress the men strongly with the necessity for courage and endurance.”

The full moon was shining in high heaven.  I bade the Captain good night.

* * * * *

On the morning of July 2d, Company A still lay behind the brigade, which was in line a little to the south of the Seminary.  The sun shone hot.  The skirmishers were busy in front.  Artillery roared at our left and far to our right.  At times shells came over us.  A caisson near by exploded.  In the afternoon a great battle was raging some two miles to our right.  Longstreet’s corps had gone in.

At four o’clock I saw some litter-bearers moving to the rear.  On the litter was a body.  The litter-bearers halted.  A few men gathered around.  Then the men of Company H began to stir.  Some of them approached the litter.  Who was it?  I became anxious.  The men came slowly back—­one at a time—­grim.

I asked who it was that had been killed.

“Captain Haskell,” they said.

My tongue failed me, as my pen does now.  What!  Captain Haskell?  Our Captain dead?  Who had ever thought that he might be killed?  I now knew that I had considered him like Washington—­invulnerable.  He had passed through so many dangers unhurt, had been exposed to so many deaths that had refused to demand him, had so freely offered his life, had been so calm and yet so valiant in battle, had been so worshipped by all the left wing of the regiment and by the battalion, had been so wise in council and so forceful in the field, had, in fine, been one of those we instinctively feel are heroes immortal!  And now he was dead?  It could not be!  There must be some mistake!

But I looked, and I saw Lieutenant Barnwell in tears, and I saw Sergeant
Mackay in tears, and I saw Rhodes in tears—­and I broke down utterly.

XXXII

NIGHT

“From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fixed sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s watch.” 

          
                                                                        —­SHAKESPEARE.