CHAPTER XIX.
WHAT BECAME OF A TRAITOR.
But Paul was not dead. He was in the hands of the enemy. He had beentaken up from the battle-field while unconscious, put into an ambulance,and carried with other wounded to a Rebel hospital.
"We can't do anything for this Yankee," said one of the surgeons wholooked at his wound.
"No, he will pop off right soon, I reckon," said another; and Paul wasleft to live or die, as it might be.
When he awoke from his stupor he found himself in an old barn, lying ona pile of straw. He was weak and faint, and suffered excruciating pain.The Rebel soldier had stolen his coat, and he had no blanket to protecthim from the cold night-winds. He was helpless. His flesh was hot, hislips were parched. A fever set in, his flesh wasted away, and his eyesbecame wild, glassy, and sunken. Week after week he lay powerless tohelp himself, often out of his head and talking of home, or imagininghe was in battle. How long the days! how lonesome the nights! But he hada strong constitution, and instead of "popping off," as the surgeonpredicted, began to get well. Months passed, of pain and agony and wearylonging. It was sweet relief when he was able to creep out and sit inthe warm sunshine.
One day a Rebel lieutenant, wearing a gay uniform trimmed with goldlace, came past him. Paul saw that he had been drinking liquor, for hecould not walk straight.
"Why don't you salute me, you Yankee villain?" said the fellow,stopping.
Paul was startled at the voice, looked the lieutenant in the face, andsaw that it was Philip Funk. His face was bloated, and his eyesbloodshot. When he fled from New Hope after robbing Mr. Bond, he madehis way south, joined the Rebels, and was now a lieutenant. Paul was sochanged by sickness that Philip did not recognize him.
"Why don't you salute me, you dirty Yankee puppy?" said Philip, with anoath.
"I don't salute a traitor and a robber," said Paul.
Philip turned pale with anger. "Say that again, and I will cut yourheart out!" he said, with a horrible oath, raising his sword andadvancing upon Paul, who stood still and looked him calmly in the eye.
"Cowards only attack unarmed men," said Paul.
"What do you mean, sir, by calling me a robber, traitor, and coward?"Philip asked, white with rage, not recognizing Paul.
"I mean that you, Philip Funk, committed robbery at New Hope, ran awayfrom home, became a traitor, and now you show yourself to be a coward bythreatening to cut out the heart of a weak defenceless prisoner."
"Who are you?" stammered Philip.
"My name is Paul Parker. I am a colonel in the service of the UnitedStates," Paul replied, not recognizing by any familiar act his oldplaymate and school-fellow.
Philip dropped his sword, and stood irresolute and undecided what to do.A group of Rebel officers who had been wounded, and were strolling aboutthe grounds, saw and heard it all. One was a colonel.
"What do you know about Lieutenant Funk?" he asked.
"He was my schoolmate. He committed robbery and came south to join yourarmy," Paul replied.
The Colonel turned to the officers who were with him, and said, "This isthe fellow who is suspected of stealing from the soldiers, and it issaid that he skulked at Chickamauga."
"The cuss ought to be reduced to the ranks," said another.
Philip did not stop to hear any more, but walked rapidly away.
The next day he was arrested and brought before a court-martial, tried,and found guilty of hiding behind a stump when ordered to make a chargein battle, and of stealing money from the soldiers. The court orderedthat he be stripped of his uniform and reduced to the ranks, and wearthe "rogue's coat" through the camp. The coat was a flour-barrel,without heads, but with holes cut in the sides for his arms.
Philip was brought out upon the parade-ground, deprived of his sword anduniform, and compelled to put on the barrel, on which were written thewords,
COWARD, ROBBER.
Thus, with two soldiers to guard him, with a drummer and fifer playingthe Rogues' March, he was paraded through the camp. The soldiers hootedat him, and asked him all sorts of questions.
"How are you, Bummer?" asked one.
"Did you pay your tailors with the money you stole?" asked another.
"Your coat puckers under the arms and wrinkles in the back," saidanother.
"He felt so big they had to hoop him to keep him from bursting,"remarked one, who remembered how pompous Philip had been.
After being marched through the camp, he was set to work with a shovel,cleaning up the grounds. It was a sorry day to Philip. He wished he hadnever been born. He was despised alike by officers and soldiers. Theofficers made him do their dirty work, while the soldiers, knowing thathe had not courage enough to resent an insult, made him the generalscavenger of the camp. This treatment was so hard to bear that Philipthought of deserting; but he knew that if he was caught he would beshot, and did not dare to make the attempt. The slaves in the camplooked down upon him, and spoke of him as the "meanest sort of Yankeewhite trash." The soldiers turned him out of their tents. "We won't havea Yankee thief and coward in our mess," said they, and he was obliged tosleep under the trees, or wherever he could find shelter. He becamedirty and ragged. His clothes dropped from him piece by piece, till hehad nothing left but rags. He had little to eat. He had no friends. Whenhe was sick, no one cared for him. Those were bitter days; but insteadof being made better at heart by his punishment, he cursed and swore,and wished only that he could get whiskey to drink.
Winter set in. There came a cold, stormy night. Philip wandered aboutthe camp to keep himself warm. He was weak and faint, and at last,tired, exhausted, and his teeth chattering with ague, crawled into awagon, drew his old tattered blanket over his head, and after shiveringawhile went to sleep. The teamsters found him there in the morning,stiff and cold. He had died during the night, with no friend near him, avagabond, an outcast, despised by everybody.
The officer who had charge of the camp, when he heard that Philip wasdead, called up a couple of soldiers who were in the guard-house forgetting drunk, and said to them, "You were drunk yesterday, and for apunishment I sentence you to bury the camp-scullion who froze to deathlast night."
The teamster harnessed his horses, drove outside of the camp into afield, where the two soldiers dug a shallow grave, tumbled the body intoit, threw back the earth, trampled it down with their feet, shoulderedtheir shovels, and went back to camp as unconcerned as if they hadburied a dog.
Winning His Way Page 19