Chapter XXVII: Requiescat in Pace

Shut out from them the bitter word,
And serpent hiss of scorning,
Nor let the storms of yesterday
Disturb their quiet morning;
Breathe over them forgetfulness
Of all save deeds of kindness,
And save to tears of pitying eyes,
Press down their lids in blindness.—WHITTIER.

The next day was devoted to a solemn duty. The dead were buried where they had fallen on the battle-field.

All except Alberta and Vittorio.

Our soldiers felt that they must find a grave in consecrated ground in which to place the poor woman, and also that they must lay beside her the husband for whom she so vainly died.

So after they had given Christian burial to the heroic dead, they placed the remains of the Free Sword and his wife in an army hearse and conveyed them to a little, old, deserted country churchyard, some three miles distant on the road to W., where the chaplain of the regiment read over them the funeral service, and where they were finally laid side by side in their resting-place—not unwept.

The tears of Elfie, who attended the funeral, fell like rain. And even Wing, who was charged with the business of the burial, was said to have dimmed the smart gold lace of his adjutant’s uniform with drops of sorrow.

The wounded were tenderly laid in ambulances, and sent on to W. under an escort of one company of cavalry.

As Elfie evinced the utmost impatience to return home, and as Colonel Rosenthal was anxious to be rid of all incumbrances, so that he might immediately go after Monck, he next morning sent Miss Fielding under a guard of honor, commanded by Adjutant Wing, to the Point of Rocks, from which she was to take the evening train to Washington.

It was while waiting at a Union farm-house near the station, that Elfie learned the final ending of the picnic party. The old farmer informed her that after the guerrillas fled, leaving the excursionists on the hill, they—the excursionists—went down to look for their boat, with the intention of returning to the city by the same way in which they had come.

But on reaching the foot of the hill and the side of the canal, they found that their boat had been robbed of all its movable effects, and then scuttled and sunk.

The unfortunate creatures had nothing to do but to return to the top of the hill and lay down to sleep as well as they could in the open air.

The next morning, cold, hungry, and cruelly stiff and sore in all their limbs, they set out to walk to the Point of Rocks, to wait for the train to Washington.

But such a starved and wretched set of ragamuffins they looked, that the conductor of the train, when it came, distrusted them, and refused to take them on until they had told and proved their story.

Such was the account of the picnic party given by the old farmer to Elfie.

“But there was one of their number who was hurt—a young man—a little man with light hair and blue eyes. Do you know anything about him?” inquired Elfie.

“Oh, yes,” answered the old farmer, quickly. “Oh, yes he was very badly hurt, indeed. They brought him here on an old door, two men supporting him in front, and two behind. And they put him on the train, and took him on to the city with them.”

“Do you—do you—think that he was dangerously hurt?” breathlessly inquired Elfie.

“Well, Miss, I should think he was. His skull was fractured.”

“Oh, Heaven of Heavens! I hope not—I earnestly hope not! Did you—did you hear anything of him afterwards?” said Elfie, clasping her hands tightly, as if she were rather entreating a favorable answer than asking for a true one.

“No, Miss, I never heard a breath of him afterwards. Was he a relation or friend of yours?”

“Oh, no—only an acquaintance of a few weeks. But I _would_ like to know his fate.”

“Well, then, Miss, seeing that he is not a relation of yours, nor likewise a very intimate friend, I might as well be frank with you. I don’t think he could have got over that hurt. You see he was very badly hurt. His skull was fractured. And he had laid all night without a doctor’s assistance. And he was quite insensible when he was brought here next morning. You wouldn’t have known he was alive if you hadn’t put your ear down close to his mouth; so faint and low was his breathing. And then, you see, there was that long journey back to Washington. All enough to kill him. Everything against him. And he such a little bit of a fellow. And so I don’t think it possible he could have got over it,” said the farmer.

“Oh, Mim! dear Mim! it was all for my sake! And if you really are killed I shall break my heart! I know I shall!” cried Elfie, wringing her hands and weeping.

“Miss Fielding,” said Adjutant Wing, “there is good hope to believe that the young man is not killed. While I was a prisoner in Monck’s camp I got hold of a morning paper in which the return of the picnic party was chronicled, and young Mim mentioned as ‘seriously’ injured. ‘Seriously,’ mind; not _dangerously_. And newspaper paragraphs seldom or never _understate_ a thing.”

“That is very true, Adjutant, and very hopeful,” said Elfie, wiping her eyes; “very hopeful; but I wish I was assured of his safety.”

“You will be so, I trust, in a very few hours. The train will be here at six, and you will be in Washington before ten,” said Wing.

The old farmer’s hospitable wife was busy preparing as good an evening meal as her limited means allowed her to get up for her guests.

When it was ready she invited them, to a table covered with tea, milk and butter, home-made bread, ham and eggs; and broiled chicken, honey and preserves.

Elfie and Wing did much honor to this meal; and by the time it was ended the train of cars was heard thundering onward towards the station.

Elfie took leave of her kind host and hostess, thanking them earnestly for their hospitality.

Wing placed the young lady in a comfortable seat in the best car; and the train started again on its way to Washington.

And soon after Adjutant Wing called his men together and set out to join his regiment.