Читать книгу The Blue and The Gray - Annie Randall White - Страница 12

THAT time should not hang heavy on their hands, much inventive genius was brought into play, and no schoolboys, famous for their ability in making up games, could equal these grown men in originating sports to fill in the hours that otherwise would have been exceedingly dull. Some such safety-valve was necessary, or else many would have broken down with memories of the dear ones at home, and the depressing sights of war, and its hardships.

The camp echoed often with the songs so dear to all who can be moved by tender thoughts. Many of the men were the possessors of rich, melodious voices, that brought many a thrill of delight to their listeners, in their tones.

Ralph had a fine voice, and to please his comrades he often sang the sweet old songs of childhood, while they listened with an enthusiasm and rounds of applause that many a prima donna could not have inspired. Throwing themselves around the blazing camp fire whose ruddy sparks flew heavenward, the whole company would join him in singing the melodies with hearty goodwill, and at those moments care and danger were forgotten. Now he would give them a plaintive, gentle ditty that would make the eyes of those brown-faced soldiers moist with emotion, as home pictures started into life before them, and then a stirring song of patriotism and victory would ring out, until the blood would leap in their veins, and each man there was ready to attack any foe single-handed.

But the boy's heart was heavy, even while his humble efforts in the musical line were giving pleasure to his comrades. His constant prayer was that some decisive move might be made, by which the war might be brought to a speedy close. He was lonely, too, for "Old Bill," as he always called himself, had been in the hospital for some time, and he missed his cheery ways.

One afternoon as he sat in his tent reading, he heard peals of boisterous laughter ringing out upon the air. Going to the opening, he saw a group of soldiers gathered round some object, and heard them chaffing some one whom he could not see.

"What is the excitement, Harry?" he asked a companion who had evidently come from the scene of action.

"I just came for you to pile out and see the fun. They've got one of our boys, and are amusing themselves at his expense. Come on, or you'll be too late. The performance will be over." Ralph hurried after Harry, who was off like a deer, and going straight up to the group, he saw a crowd of men tossing another one up in the air, and letting him fall into a blanket, amid screams of laughter, and cries of "Send him up higher!"

"Pickle him in his own salt!"

"Head him up in a barrel, and send him to the cook!"

"We'll make a high private in the rear rank of him!"

"Gently, boys," the victim panted. "You don't want to be too hard on a poor fellow for having a little joke of his own."

"Who is it—what has he done?" inquired Ralph, who didn't enjoy such rough sport, and was really concerned lest they might carry it so far as to injure the man.

"It's Corporal Fred Greene, the funny fellow of Co. H,"

Tim Mackey responded. "It's his birthday, and we re celebrating it. And he's having a high time."

Fred was a mischievous young fellow, who had just seen his twenty-third birthday. If there was any chance for a joke on any member of the company, he never lost the opportunity of making the most he could out of it.

In order to impress the fact that he had a birthday, he had invited a score of his comrades to a "small spread" in his tent. The colored cook was in the secret, and through his connivance, and the help of a few cracker boxes draped with bunting, and some tin cans, he had succeeded in making quite a tasty looking table. Before the banquet began, he made a short speech of welcome, which was responded to in good faith by Franklin Field, who was deputed to do the speaking on all occasions, as he had quite a gift of extempore oratory.

Without further ceremony, Fred cordially pressed all of them to "fall to." Just at this interesting moment, the cook, a loose-jointed, wrinkled old darkey, whose huge mouth looked as if it was always ready to utter a guffaw, entered the tent, and scraping and bowing to the "gemmens," broke out with—"Sorry to put back your 'joyment, Massa Fred, but youse wanted outside, bad."