My meeting with him was accidental.I came across him passing through "the square".I had seen him once or twice on the street, each time lurching along so drunk that he could scarcely stagger, so that I was surprised to hear what he said about the war.
He was talking to someone who evidently had been in the army himself, but on the other side -- a gentleman with the loyal-legion button in his coat, and with a beautiful scar, a sabre-cut across his face.He was telling of a charge in some battle or skirmish in which, he declared, his company, not himself -- for I remember he said he was "No.4", and was generally told off to hold the horses; and that that day he had had the ill luck to lose his horse and get a little scratch himself, so he was not in the charge -- did the finest work he ever saw, and really (so he claimed)saved the day.It was this self-abnegation that first arrested my attention, for I had been accustomed all my life to hear the war talked of;it was one of the inspiring influences in my humdrum existence.
But the speakers, although they generally boasted of their commands, never of themselves individually, usually admitted that they themselves had been in the active force, and thus tacitly shared in the credit.
"No.4", however, expressly disclaimed that he was entitled to any of the praise, declaring that he was safe behind the crest of the hill (which he said he "hugged mighty close"), and claimed the glory for the rest of the command.
"It happened just as I have told you here," he said, in closing.
"Old Joe saw the point as soon as the battery went to work, and sent Binford Terrell to the colonel to ask him to let him go over there and take it; and when Joe gave the word the boys went.They didn't go at a walk either, I tell you; it wasn't any promenade: they went clipping.
At first the guns shot over 'em; didn't catch 'em till the third fire;then they played the devil with 'em: but the boys were up there right in 'em before they could do much.They turned the guns on 'em as they went down the hill (oh, our boys could handle the tubes then as well as the artillery themselves), and in a little while the rest of the line came up, and we formed a line of battle right there on that crest, and held it till nearly night.That's when I got jabbed.I picked up another horse, and with my foolishness went over there.That evening, you know, you all charged us -- we were dismounted then.We lost more men then than we had done all day; there were forty-seven out of seventy-two killed or wounded.They walked all over us; two of 'em got hold of me (you see, I went to get our old flag some of you had got hold of), but I was too worthless to die.There were lots of 'em did go though, I tell you; old Joe in the lead.Yes, sir; the old company won that day, and old Joe led 'em.There ain't but a few of us left; but when you want us, Colonel, you can get us.We'll stand by you."He paused in deep reflection; his mind evidently back with his old company and its gallant commander "old Joe", whoever he might be, who was remembered so long after he passed away in the wind and smoke of that unnamed evening battle.I took a good look at him -- at "No.4", as he called himself.He was tall, but stooped a little;his features were good, at least his nose and brow were;his mouth and chin were weak.His mouth was too stained with the tobacco which he chewed to tell much about it -- and his chin was like so many American chins, not strong.His eyes looked weak.
His clothes were very much worn, but they had once been good;they formerly had been black, and well made; the buttons were all on.
His shirt was clean.I took note of this, for he had a dissipated look, and a rumpled shirt would have been natural.A man's linen tells on him before his other clothes.His listener had evidently been impressed by him also, for he arose, and said, abruptly, "Let's go and take a drink."To my surprise "No.4" declined."No, I thank you," he said, with promptness.
I instinctively looked at him again to see if I had not misjudged him;but I concluded not, that I was right, and that he was simply "not drinking".
I was flattered at my discrimination when I heard him say that he had "sworn off".His friend said no more, but remained standing while "No.4"expatiated on the difference between a man who is drinking and one who is not.
I never heard a more striking exposition of it.He said he wondered that any man could be such a fool as to drink liquor; that he had determined never to touch another drop.He presently relapsed into silence, and the other reached out his hand to say good-by.Suddenly rising, he said:
"Well, suppose we go and have just one for old times' sake.Just one now, mind you; for I have not touched a drop in ----" He turned away, and I did not catch the length of the time mentioned.But I have reason to believe that "No.4" overstated it.
The next time I saw him was in the police court.I happened to be there when he walked out of the pen among as miscellaneous a lot of chronic drunkards, thieves, and miscreants of both sexes and several colors as were ever gathered together.He still had on his old black suit, buttoned up;but his linen was rumpled and soiled like himself, and he was manifestly just getting over a debauch, the effects of which were still visible on him in every line of his perspiring face and thin figure.He walked with that exaggerated erectness which told his self-deluded state as plainly as if he had pronounced it in words.He had evidently been there before, and more than once.The justice nodded to him familiarly:
"Here again?" he asked, in a tone part pleasantry, part regret.
"Yes, your honor.Met an old soldier last night, and took a drop for good fellowship, and before I knew it ----" A shrug of the shoulders completed the sentence, and the shoulders did not straighten any more.
The tall officer who had picked him up said something to the justice in a tone too low for me to catch; but "No.4" heard it -- it was evidently a statement against him -- for he started to speak in a deprecating way.
The judge interrupted him:
