“Lieutenant,” said the officer, “the colonel directs you to move forward your line and feel the enemy if you find him.  If not, continue the advance until directed to halt.  There is reason to think that the enemy has retreated.”

The lieutenant nodded and said nothing; the other officer retired.  In a moment the men, apprised of their duty by the non-commissioned officers in low tones, had deployed from their rifle-pits and were moving forward in skirmishing order, with set teeth and beating hearts.

This line of skirmishers sweeps across the plantation toward the mountain.  They pass on both sides of the wrecked building, observing nothing.  At a short distance in their rear their commander comes.  He casts his eyes curiously upon the ruin and sees a dead body half buried in boards and timbers.  It is so covered with dust that its clothing is Confederate gray.  Its face is yellowish white; the cheeks are fallen in, the temples sunken, too, with sharp ridges about them, making the forehead forbiddingly narrow; the upper lip, slightly lifted, shows the white teeth, rigidly clenched.  The hair is heavy with moisture, the face as wet as the dewy grass all about.  From his point of view the officer does not observe the rifle; the man was apparently killed by the fall of the building.

“Dead a week,” said the officer curtly, moving on and absently pulling out his watch as if to verify his estimate of time.  Six o’clock and forty minutes.

KILLED AT RESACA

The best soldier of our staff was Lieutenant Herman Brayle, one of the two aides-de-camp.  I don’t remember where the general picked him up; from some Ohio regiment, I think; none of us had previously known him, and it would have been strange if we had, for no two of us came from the same State, nor even from adjoining States.  The general seemed to think that a position on his staff was a distinction that should be so judiciously conferred as not to beget any sectional jealousies and imperil the integrity of that part of the country which was still an integer.  He would not even choose officers from his own command, but by some jugglery at department headquarters obtained them from other brigades.  Under such circumstances, a man’s services had to be very distinguished indeed to be heard of by his family and the friends of his youth; and “the speaking trump of fame” was a trifle hoarse from loquacity, anyhow.

Lieutenant Brayle was more than six feet in height and of splendid proportions, with the light hair and gray-blue eyes which men so gifted usually find associated with a high order of courage.  As he was commonly in full uniform, especially in action, when most officers are content to be less flamboyantly attired, he was a very striking and conspicuous figure.  As to the rest, he had a gentleman’s manners, a scholar’s head, and a lion’s heart.  His age was about thirty.