Of course, I did not dare to close my eyes
at night, and lack of sleep was a keen torture. “I remember the morning of the third day, which I knew was to be my last. I remember, rather indistinctly, that in my desperation and delirium I
sprang out into the open and began firing my repeating rifle without
seeing anybody to fire at. And I remember no more of that fight. “The next thing that I recollect was my pulling myself out of a river
just at nightfall. I had not a rag of clothing and knew nothing of my
whereabouts, but all that night I traveled, cold and footsore, toward the
north. At daybreak I found myself at Fort C. F. Smith, my destination,
but without my dispatches. The first man that I met was a sergeant named
William Briscoe, whom I knew very well. You can fancy his astonishment
at seeing me in that condition, and my own at his asking who the devil I
was. “‘Dave Duck,’ I answered; ‘who should I be?’

“He stared like an owl. “‘You do look it,’ he said, and I observed that he drew a little away
from me. ‘What’s up?’ he added. “I told him what had happened to me the day before. He heard me through,
still staring; then he said:

“‘My dear fellow, if you are Dave Duck I ought to inform you that I
buried you two months ago. I was out with a small scouting party and
found your body, full of bullet-holes and newly scalped—somewhat
mutilated otherwise, too, I am sorry to say—right where you say you made
your fight. Come to my tent and I’ll show you your clothing and some
letters that I took from your person; the commandant has your
dispatches.’

“He performed that promise. He showed me the clothing, which I
resolutely put on; the letters, which I put into my pocket. He made no
objection, then took me to the commandant, who heard my story and coldly
ordered Briscoe to take me to the guardhouse. On the way I said:

“‘Bill Briscoe, did you really and truly bury the dead body that you
found in these togs?’

“‘Sure,’ he answered—‘just as I told you. It was Dave Duck, all right;
most of us knew him. And now, you damned impostor, you’d better tell me
who you are.’

“‘I’d give something to know,’ I said. “A week later, I escaped from the guardhouse and got out of the country
as fast as I could. Twice I have been back, seeking for that fateful
spot in the hills, but unable to find it.”



THREE AND ONE ARE ONE


IN the year 1861 Barr Lassiter, a young man of twenty-two, lived with his
parents and an elder sister near Carthage, Tennessee. The family were in
somewhat humble circumstances, subsisting by cultivation of a small and
not very fertile plantation. Owning no slaves, they were not rated among
“the best people” of their neighborhood; but they were honest persons of
good education, fairly well mannered and as respectable as any family
could be if uncredentialed by personal dominion over the sons and
daughters of Ham. The elder Lassiter had that severity of manner that so
frequently affirms an uncompromising devotion to duty, and conceals a
warm and affectionate disposition. He was of the iron of which martyrs
are made, but in the heart of the matrix had lurked a nobler metal,
fusible at a milder heat, yet never coloring nor softening the hard
exterior. By both heredity and environment something of the man’s
inflexible character had touched the other members of the family; the
Lassiter home, though not devoid of domestic affection, was a veritable
citadel of duty, and duty—ah, duty is as cruel as death! When the war came on it found in the family, as in so many others in that
State, a divided sentiment; the young man was loyal to the Union, the
others savagely hostile. This unhappy division begot an insupportable
domestic bitterness, and when the offending son and brother left home
with the avowed purpose of joining the Federal army not a hand was laid
in his, not a word of farewell was spoken, not a good wish followed him
out into the world whither he went to meet with such spirit as he might
whatever fate awaited him. Making his way to Nashville, already occupied by the Army of General
Buell, he enlisted in the first organization that he found, a Kentucky
regiment of cavalry, and in due time passed through all the stages of
military evolution from raw recruit to experienced trooper. A right good
trooper he was, too, although in his oral narrative from which this tale
is made there was no mention of that; the fact was learned from his
surviving comrades. For Barr Lassiter has answered “Here” to the
sergeant whose name is Death. Two years after he had joined it his regiment passed through the region
whence he had come. The country thereabout had suffered severely from
the ravages of war, having been occupied alternately (and simultaneously)
by the belligerent forces, and a sanguinary struggle had occurred in the
immediate vicinity of the Lassiter homestead. But of this the young
trooper was not aware. Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural longing to see
his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in him, the unnatural
animosities of the period had been softened by time and separation. Obtaining a leave of absence, he set foot in the late summer afternoon,
and soon after the rising of the full moon was walking up the gravel path
leading to the dwelling in which he had been born. Soldiers in war age rapidly, and in youth two years are a long time. Barr Lassiter felt himself an old man, and had almost expected to find
the place a ruin and a desolation. Nothing, apparently, was changed. At
the sight of each dear and familiar object he was profoundly affected. His heart beat audibly, his emotion nearly suffocated him; an ache was in
his throat. Unconsciously he quickened his pace until he almost ran, his
long shadow making grotesque efforts to keep its place beside him. The house was unlighted, the door open. As he approached and paused to
recover control of himself his father came out and stood bare-headed in
the moonlight. “Father!” cried the young man, springing forward with outstretched
hand—“Father!”

The elder man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment motionless
and without a word withdrew into the house. Bitterly disappointed,
humiliated, inexpressibly hurt and altogether unnerved, the soldier
dropped upon a rustic seat in deep dejection, supporting his head upon
his trembling hand. But he would not have it so: he was too good a
soldier to accept repulse as defeat. He rose and entered the house,
passing directly to the “sitting-room.”

It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window. On a low stool by
the hearthside, the only article of furniture in the place, sat his
mother, staring into a fireplace strewn with blackened embers and cold
ashes. He spoke to her—tenderly, interrogatively, and with hesitation,
but she neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in any way surprised. True, there had been time for her husband to apprise her of their guilty
son’s return.