When he
had finished he took out a little bag of Virginian tobacco and they smoked
together beside the waning fire. A natural light returned gradually to
Dan's eyes, and while the clouds of smoke rose high above the bushes, they
talked of the last great battles as quietly as of the Punic Wars. It was
all dead now, as dead as history, and the men who fought had left the
bitterness to the camp followers or to the ones who stayed at home.
"You have fine tobacco down this way," observed the Union soldier, as he
refilled his pipe, and lighted it with an ember. Then his gaze followed
Dan's, which was resting on the long blue lines that stretched across the
landscape.
"You're feeling right bad about us now," he pursued, as he crossed his legs
and leaned back against a pine, "and I guess it's natural, but the time
will come when you'll know that we weren't the worst you had to face."
Dan held out his hand with something of a smile.
"It was a fair fight and I can shake hands," he responded.
"Well, I don't mean that," said the other thoughtfully. "What I mean is
just this, you mark my words--after the battle comes the vultures. After
the army of fighters comes the army of those who haven't smelled the
powder. And in time you'll learn that it isn't the man with the rifle that
does the most of the mischief. The damned coffee boilers will get their
hands in now--I know 'em."
"Well, there's nothing left, I suppose, but to swallow it down without any
fuss," said Dan wearily, looking over the field where the slaughtered ox
was roasting on a hundred bayonets at a hundred fires.
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