A FAIR SACRIFICE--THE STORY OF ONE BOY WHO WILLINGLY GAVE HIS YOUNG
LIFE FOR HIS COUNTRY.
Charley Barbour was one of the truest-hearted and best-liked of my
school-boy chums and friends. For several terms we sat together on
the same uncompromisingly uncomfortable bench, worried over the same
boy-maddening problems in “Ray’s Arithmetic-Part III.,” learned the
same jargon of meaningless rules from “Greene’s Grammar,” pondered over
“Mitchell’s Geography and Atlas,” and tried in vain to understand why
Providence made the surface of one State obtrusively pink and another
ultramarine blue; trod slowly and painfully over the rugged road
“Bullion” points out for beginners in Latin, and began to believe we
should hate ourselves and everybody else, if we were gotten up after
the manner shown by “Cutter’s Physiology.” We were caught together in
the same long series of school-boy scrapes--and were usually ferruled
together by the same strong-armed teacher. We shared nearly everything
--our fun and work; enjoyment and annoyance--all were generally
meted out to us together. We read from the same books the story of
the wonderful world we were going to see in that bright future “when
we were men;” we spent our Saturdays and vacations in the miniature
explorations of the rocky hills and caves, and dark cedar woods around
our homes, to gather ocular helps to a better comprehension of that
magical land which we were convinced began just beyond our horizon, and
had in it, visible to the eye of him who traveled through its enchanted
breadth, all that “Gulliver’s Fables,” the “Arabian Nights,” and a
hundred books of travel and adventure told of.
We imagined that the only dull and commonplace spot on earth was that
where we lived. Everywhere else life was a grand spectacular drama,
full of thrilling effects.
Brave and handsome young men were rescuing distressed damsels,
beautiful as they were wealthy; bloody pirates and swarthy murderers
were being foiled by quaint spoken backwoodsmen, who carried unerring
rifles; gallant but blundering Irishmen, speaking the most delightful
brogue, and making the funniest mistakes, were daily thwarting cool
and determined villains; bold tars were encountering fearful sea
perils; lionhearted adventurers were cowing and quelling whole tribes
of barbarians; magicians were casting spells, misers hoarding gold,
scientists making astonishing discoveries, poor and unknown boys
achieving wealth and fame at a single bound, hidden mysteries coming
to light, and so the world was going on, making reams of history with
each diurnal revolution, and furnishing boundless material for the most
delightful books.
At the age of thirteen a perusal of the lives of Benjamin Franklin and
Horace Greeley precipitated my determination to no longer hesitate in
launching my small bark upon the great ocean. I ran away from home
in a truly romantic way, and placed my foot on what I expected to be
the first round of the ladder of fame, by becoming “devil boy” in a
printing office in a distant large City. Charley’s attachment to his
mother and his home was too strong to permit him to take this step,
and we parted in sorrow, mitigated on my side by roseate dreams of the
future.
Six years passed. One hot August morning I met an old acquaintance
at the Creek, in Andersonville. He told me to come there the next
morning, after roll-call, and he would take me to see some person who
was very anxious to meet me. I was prompt at the rendezvous, and was
soon joined by the other party. He threaded his way slowly for over
half an hour through the closely-jumbled mass of tents and burrows,
and at length stopped in front of a blanket-tent in the northwestern
corner. The occupant rose and took my hand. For an instant I was
puzzled; then the clear, blue eyes, and well-remembered smile recalled
to me my old-time comrade, Charley Barbour. His story was soon told.
He was a Sergeant in a Western Virginia cavalry regiment--the Fourth,
I think. At the time Hunter was making his retreat from the Valley of
Virginia, it was decided to mislead the enemy by sending out a courier
with false dispatches to be captured. There was a call for a volunteer
for this service. Charley was the first to offer, with that spirit of
generous self-sacrifice that was one of his pleasantest traits when
a boy. He knew what he had to expect. Capture meant imprisonment at
Andersonville; our men had now a pretty clear understanding of what
this was. Charley took the dispatches and rode into the enemy’s lines.
He was taken, and the false information produced the desired effect.
On his way to Andersonville he was stripped of all his clothing
but his shirt and pantaloons, and turned into the Stockade in this
condition. When I saw him he had been in a week or more. He told his
story quietly--almost diffidently--not seeming aware that he had done
more than his simple duty. I left him with the promise and expectation
of returning the next day, but when I attempted to find him again, I
was lost in the maze of tents and burrows. I had forgotten to ask the
number of his detachment, and after spending several days in hunting
for him, I was forced to give the search up. He knew as little of my
whereabouts, and though we were all the time within seventeen hundred
feet of each other, neither we nor our common acquaintance could ever
manage to meet again. This will give the reader an idea of the throng
compressed within the narrow limits of the Stockade. After leaving
Andersonville, however, I met this man once more, and learned from him
that Charley had sickened and died within a month after his entrance to
prison.
So ended his day-dream of a career in the busy world.