Sunbury American

TALES AND SKETCHES.

A

BAY'S MARCH.

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR.

Right above our heads blazed the overpowering sun. We looked up piteously at the glaring sky, hoping in vain to see some friendly cloud interpose in our behalf, and cast a generous shadow over our panting columns. But nothing save the clear blue of interminable space, unrelieved by a single cloud, and emblazoned by the scorching sun, met our despairing eyes. Still we marched on, our blouses saturated perspiration, and our temples throbbing painfully amid the tramp of a thousand brogans.

Each one of the innumerable straps which complete the harness of a soldier seemed to sink gradually into our burning flesh. We did not drop from the ranks and stretch our wearied limbs on the yellow grass, or we would famish for water, as none had been seen for many a weary mile, so still we moved on. Beside me walked a pale, slender young fellow, whom the boys had christened "gentle Joe," doubtless on account of his mild disposition. Joe and I had been great friends since he had been transferred along with some eight or ten others, some six months previous. He was a meek little fellow, and as a matter of course tyrannized over by the rest. I often met him about camp, and eventually took an interest in him, and protecting him as far as lay in my power from imposition; and, indeed, one day rescued him from the hands of a drunken rascal, who, with an iron ramrod was about to impose summary punishment upon poor Joe, because, forsooth the little fellow had declined visiting the quartermaster's tent, for the purpose of realizing a canteen of whiskey. After this I made an attempt to have him transferred into our mess, and to his evident joy, succeeded. Here, under my protection, Joe seemed perfectly happy; for though in action he was as brave as the bravest, he appeared to have a moral terror of the rough ways of the men. His modesty formed a capital subject for the witty and I would often see him turn scarlet at some rough joke. He was very fond of me however, and by many a little incident of self-sacrifice, I knew the patient affection of "gentle Joe."

But to return to our march. As I said I was dragging my weary limbs along beside my friend, who, in spite of my own suffering, inspired me with pity. His eyeballs were turned painfully towards the lids; his lips dry, cracked and bleeding, were drawn tightly across his teeth: his knapsack hung flopping from his narrow shoulders; and but one drop of sweat rolled down his cheek—a drop of mortal agony, pressed from an unwilling brain. Yet he bore up, and his burning feet still echoed to the thousands around. On, on we tramped; our clothes powdered, our beard gray, and our lungs stinging with the hateful dust. Anon an unfortunate falling in convulsions by the way and the surgeon bending over him in piteous helplessness, for his flask is long empty, were the only interruption in our monotonous march. But no signs of commiseration disturbed the dogged expression of the grim faces that passed. All feeling, all senses were lost in one of intense thirst.

No familiar shout greeted the colonel as he rode along the line, trying with ghastly smiles to greet his men, or with husky voice and swollen tongue to venture a melancholy joke. Even the dumb stones received no curse as they struck the soldier's foot as he went stumbling on.

"Let me take your musket, Joe." said I fearing he would sink down. But he shook his head and staggered on.

"Will you give me that sun?" I resumed, after he had taken a few more wild steps, reeling like a drunken man.

"I can carry it, Tom," he answered looking up gratefully. I saw it was useless to ask him, as the brave little fellow would never have relinquished it: and it was evident that both he and his musket must soon fall unless he was relieved. Therefore, I unslung my knapsack, and leaving it in my tracks, took the piece from his shoulder.

We had hardly gained another mile before my head began to whirl, and the glittering bayonets ahead seemed a flickering sheet of flame. I felt myself staggering.

"Here, Tom, I have some water, drink!"

"Water! I must be delirious, or are you mocking me? No, Joe never does that."

But he did not drink—then he cannot have it. Joe, Joe, where is the water?

"Here, Tom, in my canteen."

"Then for God's sake drink yourself, for I won't," I answered; determined he should not sacrifice the last drop of life at the altar of friendship. I dropped both muskets, in hope they would relieve me; it was in vain. for, after a few random strides I became insensible,

I was awakened by a grateful drop of water trickling down my throat. "More."

I gasped, as I opened my eyes, and distinguished the form of a man kneeling beside me. The canteen was placed to my lips, and as I drained it to the last drop, I recognized my "gentle Joe." I felt somewhat revived, and regained my feet.

"Come Joe."

But he made no attempt to move, sitting motionless, embracing his knees, and watching me intently.

"Are you going, Tom?" he said vacantly.

"Of course, we will both die, if we stay here. Come on."

"Good-bye, Tom," he said; while an almost angelic expression of love lit up his face, I stood confounded: was he crazy

Then, for the first time, the truth flashed upon my bewildered senses. I had taken his last drop of water, and he was famishing. I turned to him in an agony of remorse. He was lying upon his back, with his eyes closed "I knelt beside him, and placed my hand on his temple; he slowly opened his great brown eyes, "Joe, friend, how do you feel? He answered faintly:

"Kiss me. Tom.

Poor boy: his mind wanders. thought I

"Come, now, let me carry you," I said; but he made no signs of consciousness. I seized his hand, but he was cramped and stiff. I laid my hand upon his temple but it throbbed no more, I raised the clenched hand to my lips and kissed it, for he was dead. I took a small gold chain from his neck, as a memento, and taking off my blouse, covered the face of "gentle Joe," and reeled onward.

In my convalescence I bethought me of the chain. Taking it from my pocket, I examined it as well as my tears would let me. Attached to the chain was a small locket, enclosing an ambrotype of a girl—his sweet heart, perhaps, poor girl! or more likely his sister, as she greatly resembles him. I took the picture from the locket, in hope of finding his name, but was I mistaken, for upon the back was pasted a piece of paper, upon which was written:

"Any one, who finds this after I am killed will please send it to my mother. Mrs. living at

JOSEPHENE.