EVENT crowded upon event as the first two long years of the war
glided by-years that seemed to calendar twenty-four, instead of
twelve months each. The strife hadn't yet reached its climax, but
blood was flowing fearfully. From Maine to the Gulf was one vast
beleaguered sea-coast, for at every sea-port city, grim monsters of
war stood guarding the entrance to the harbor. Already the central,
though despised Queen City, was feeling the fire of a fierce and
cruel bombardment. Refugees were flitting hither and thither about
the country, seeking peace and security, but finding none. Want and
privation were even now beginning to menace a once luxurious people,
and gloom and despair to enshroud the hopes of those who had fondly
dreamed of a successful dismemberment of the Union. Such was the
record of the years preceding the memorable seven days' fighting at
"Merry Oaks."
These battles form the half-way stone in the long period of our
civil war. It was the day after the dreadful conflict. The forces
had retired to re-gather their strength, and the wounded, dying, and
dead, were left upon the field. Early in the morning, as the heat of
the summer sun was streaming down, a horseman rode slowly and
carefully about this field of death. Here and there, lying thickly,
as they fell, were the dead of both forces, easily distinguished by
the different colors they wore, while gathered in groups, under the
grateful shade-trees, could be seen the wounded whose strength was
sufficient to drag them thither. This field was a shocking
spectacle. And as the horseman rode slowly along the desolate track,
peering curiously and sadly into the upturned faces of the dead, a
casual observer might have detected the melancholy expression on his
face, and marked the glittering tear that bedewed his eyes. For
brave, true, noble George Marshall, was never ashamed to weep over
the woes of humanity! Imperative business had called him from his
post of duty to the seat of war, just in time to be within ear-shot
of that memorable seven days' carnage. And as he rode, on that quiet
summer morning, strange, painful emotions filled his heart. Around
and about him, before and behind, lay grim and ghastly faces cold in
death-faces of soldiers who were brothers in country, and many of
them brothers in name-brothers in actual consanguinity, brothers in
destiny, brothers in everything, save love. There they were,
peaceful now, side by side, the last conflict ended, the last spark
of animosity extinguished; there, side by side-dead. No wonder
George Marshall wept. The wonder is that there ever throbbed a human
heart that could refrain from weeping over such a scene.
At length, George Marshall suddenly drew his rein, and lifting his
hand to his forehead so as to shade his eyes, gazed curiously
forward for a moment toward an object lying not very far distant.
Then, quickly alighting, he stepped cautiously toward the object of
his scrutiny. It was the dead body of a soldier. The dark blue
uniform told to which army he belonged. The stocking, turned back
from a slender ankle, fell carelessly over the heavy army shoe. The
head was half-averted, and the open eyes, though sightless, were
still bright with God's own azure.
"Creeping gently through his slender hand, as though it loved the
cold caress of death, was a wild vine whose tiny blossoms would have
shrunk at the touch of a wild bee's foot." By the side of his face
was the worn cap that had fallen from his head as he fell.
Fearfully, timidly, with an air of dread, Colonel Marshall
approached the silent figure and bent over the recumbent form.
"Great God! it is Franco! I thought I knew the poor fellow from
afar! Poor, poor boy! Poor fair-haired Franco!" he exclaimed in a
breath. Then gently turning the soiled cap, he read "Third Regiment
United States Regulars." "My old command, my old command," he
murmured. "Alas! poor Franco! I thank God we did not meet in deadly
conflict. Your true, kind heart wished no one ill, yet an unkind
fate has brought you to a mournful end, and I, for one, shall mourn
your hapless lot. Alas! poor boy, you'll never see your vine-clad
France again, and your kind mother's peasant home will ever be
darkened by your absence."
Then kneeling for a little time beside the dead boy, the
kind-hearted colonel dropped a tear and bowed his head in deep
reflection. Then, arising and looking eagerly about him, he said at
length, "There, in the end of that entrenchment, by the side of that
shattered tree, I can lay his body, in lieu of a better grave. There
it will at least be safe from the vultures and the horrible fate
that awaits the unburied dead of a defeated army."
Then tenderly and sadly he laid the young soldier away in his
peaceful grave, covering his face with his smoke-stained cap, and
folding his pulseless hands upon his bosom. At last, covering the
mound upon which his tears had fallen, with some evergreen boughs,
he patiently carved upon a rude board, that he set up to mark the
grave, the words:
"POOR FRANCO. Aged 20."