“Yours, either in life or death, Albert Nichol.”

He made another copy of this letter, put both in envelopes, and addressed them, then sought two men of his company who came from his native village.  They were awake now and boiling their coffee.  The officer and the privates had grown up as boys together with little difference of social standing in the democratic town.  When off duty, there still existed much of the old familiarity and friendly converse, but when Captain Nichol gave an order, his townsmen immediately became conscious that they were separated from him by the iron wall of military discipline.  This characteristic did not alienate his old associates.  One of the men hit the truth fairly in saying:  “When Cap speaks as Cap, he’s as hard and sharp as a bayonet-point; but when a feller is sick and worn out ‘tween times you’d think your granny was coddlin’ yer.”

It was as friend and old neighbor that Nichol approached Sam and Jim Wetherby, two stalwart brothers who had enlisted in his company.  “Boys,” he said, “I have a favor to ask of you.  The Lord only knows how the day will end for any of us.  We will take our chances and do our duty, as usual.  I hope we may all boil coffee again to-night; but who knows?  Here are two letters.  If I should fall, and either or both of you come out all right, as I trust you will, please forward them.  If I am with you again to-night, return them to me.”

“Come, Captain,” said Jim, heartily, “the bullet isn’t molded that can harm you.  You’ll lead us into Richmond yet.”

“It will not be from lack of goodwill if I don’t.  I like your spirit; and I believe the army will get there this time whether I’m with it or not.  Do as I ask.  There is no harm in providing against what may happen.  Make your breakfast quickly, for orders may come at any moment;” and he strode away to look after the general readiness of his men.

The two brothers compared the address on the letters and laughed a little grimly.  “Cap is a-providing, sure enough,” Sam Wetherby remarked.  “They are both written to the pretty Helen Kemble that he used to make eyes at in the singing-school.  I guess he thinks that you might stop a bullet as well as himself, Jim.”

“It’s clear he thinks your chances for taking in lead are just as good,” replied Jim.  “But come, I’m one of them fellows that’s never hit till I am hit.  One thing at a time, and now it’s breakfast.”

“Well, hanged if I want to charge under the lead of any other captain!” remarked Sam, meditatively sipping his coffee.  “If that girl up yonder knows Cap’s worth, she’ll cry her eyes out if anything happens to him.”