WHAT BECAME OF A TRAITOR.
But Paul was not dead. He was in the hands of the enemy. He had been
taken 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 who
looked at his wound.
"No, he will pop off right soon, I reckon," said another; and Paul was
left to live or die, as it might be.
When he awoke from his stupor he found himself in an old barn, lying on
a 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 protect
him from the cold night-winds. He was helpless. His flesh was hot, his
lips were parched. A fever set in, his flesh wasted away, and his eyes
became wild, glassy, and sunken. Week after week he lay powerless to
help himself, often out of his head and talking of home, or imagining
he was in battle. How long the days! how lonesome the nights! But he had
a strong constitution, and instead of "popping off," as the surgeon
predicted, began to get well. Months passed, of pain and agony and weary
longing. It was sweet relief when he was able to creep out and sit in
the warm sunshine.
One day a Rebel lieutenant, wearing a gay uniform trimmed with gold
lace, came past him. Paul saw that he had been drinking liquor, for he
could 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, and
saw that it was Philip Funk. His face was bloated, and his eyes
bloodshot. When he fled from New Hope after robbing Mr. Bond, he made
his way south, joined the Rebels, and was now a lieutenant. Paul was so
changed by sickness that Philip did not recognize him.
"Why don't you salute me, you dirty Yankee puppy?" said Philip, with an
oath.
"I don't salute a traitor and a robber," said Paul.
Philip turned pale with anger. "Say that again, and I will cut your
heart out!" he said, with a horrible oath, raising his sword and
advancing 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 away
from home, became a traitor, and now you show yourself to be a coward by
threatening 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 United
States," Paul replied, not recognizing by any familiar act his old
playmate 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 about
the 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 your
army," Paul replied.
The Colonel turned to the officers who were with him, and said, "This is
the fellow who is suspected of stealing from the soldiers, and it is
said 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 charge
in battle, and of stealing money from the soldiers. The court ordered
that he be stripped of his uniform and reduced to the ranks, and wear
the "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 and
uniform, and compelled to put on the barrel, on which were written the
words,
COWARD, ROBBER.
Thus, with two soldiers to guard him, with a drummer and fifer playing
the Rogues' March, he was paraded through the camp. The soldiers hooted
at 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," said
another.
"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 had
never been born. He was despised alike by officers and soldiers. The
officers made him do their dirty work, while the soldiers, knowing that
he had not courage enough to resent an insult, made him the general
scavenger of the camp. This treatment was so hard to bear that Philip
thought of deserting; but he knew that if he was caught he would be
shot, and did not dare to make the attempt. The slaves in the camp
looked down upon him, and spoke of him as the "meanest sort of Yankee
white trash." The soldiers turned him out of their tents. "We won't have
a Yankee thief and coward in our mess," said they, and he was obliged to
sleep under the trees, or wherever he could find shelter. He became
dirty and ragged. His clothes dropped from him piece by piece, till he
had nothing left but rags. He had little to eat. He had no friends. When
he was sick, no one cared for him. Those were bitter days; but instead
of 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 about
the camp to keep himself warm. He was weak and faint, and at last,
tired, exhausted, and his teeth chattering with ague, crawled into a
wagon, drew his old tattered blanket over his head, and after shivering
awhile 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, a
vagabond, an outcast, despised by everybody.
The officer who had charge of the camp, when he heard that Philip was
dead, called up a couple of soldiers who were in the guard-house for
getting drunk, and said to them, "You were drunk yesterday, and for a
punishment I sentence you to bury the camp-scullion who froze to death
last night."
The teamster harnessed his horses, drove outside of the camp into a
field, where the two soldiers dug a shallow grave, tumbled the body into
it, threw back the earth, trampled it down with their feet, shouldered
their shovels, and went back to camp as unconcerned as if they had
buried a dog.