ZEBEDEE was the Captain of Company Q. Sheer merit had won him the title. He was the first and the last of his kind. He stood unique. For it was the only Company Q that had ever been captained—Company Q being the stragglers and camp-followers, miscellaneous and heterogeneous, who drift in an army’s wake.

Unique though Zebedee’s position was, it was far from satisfying the ambition that he had once cherished. For he had longed to be a soldier. He had dreamed of doing great deeds; of rising from the ranks, of steadily mounting upward, of winning lofty title and mighty fame.

But the surgeon curtly refused him. It was the heart, he said. And when Zebedee, amazed, bewildered, for he had never suspected himself to be a sick man, stammered a protest, the surgeon said a few cutting words about worthless men trying to get in for pay and pension—which words were to Zebedee as blows. And he yielded with such bleak finality as never again to ask for enlistment.

But although he himself could scarcely explain how it came to pass, he found himself a camp-follower, a drudge, a volunteer servant to the command of a general to whose fame he gave humble and admiring awe. At first the soldiers had tolerated him; gradually there had come a recognition of his willingness, his good-nature, his real cleverness. It somehow came to be believed that it was by some vagrant choice of his own that he was a member of Company Q, and none ever dreamed that he longed with pathetic intensity for his lost chance of being a soldier. On the march he wore a look of exaltation whenever, which was not seldom, two or three of the men would carelessly give him their muskets to carry. In the camp he was happy if he could do some service—he would chop wood, build fires, and cook. And in time of battle he was perforce resigned when the soldiers marched by him into the smoke and the roar, leaving him behind to hold some officer’s horse or look after some tent.

But the innate spirit that, if given the opportunity, would have carried him far upward, made him master of the motley members of Q, and it gradually came to be that his words had the force of law with them.

He never assumed a complete uniform. His very reverence for it and for all that it represented kept him from such a height of undeserved glory. But he tried to satisfy his craving soul with the tattered jacket of an artilleryman, a shabby cavalry cap, and the breeches of infantry; and the sartorial dissimilitude, through the working of some obscure logic, obviated presumption yet kept alive some pride.

How it happened that Zebedee was so often in dangerous places which the other members of Company Q carefully avoided was a puzzle to the soldiers, and it came to be ascribed to a sort of blundering heedlessness—not bravery, of course, for he was only a camp-follower.

And one day, when the command failed in its attack upon a fort, Zebedee found himself with the handful who fled for safety close up against the hostile works. There they were protected from shots from above; and the enemy dared not, on account of a covering fire, come out into the open to attack them; and there they hoped to stay till darkness should permit retreat.

But the day was blisteringly hot, and thirst began to madden them. Then Zebedee slung about him a score of canteens, and dashed out across the plain, and lead rained pitilessly about him as he jingled on, but he was not hit. His canteens were swiftly filled by friendly hands, and he turned to go back across that deadly space.

THEN ZEBEDEE DASHED OUT ACROSS THE PLAIN

He knew that fire would flash along the hostile works; that lead again would rain; but he did not waver. He saw the dark line of his comrades, he knew their misery, he could at least give one life for his country—and the men watched him with awe as, with a curious gravity, he, about to die, saluted them in farewell and ran unhesitatingly out. A sort of glory was upon his countenance. There was a hush. Friend and enemy alike were awed and still. No sound was heard but the rapid patter of his feet. There came no flash and smoke, no splintering sound of musketry. But there arose a mighty shout—friends and enemies alike were cheering him!—and he sank, hysterically sobbing, among his comrades.

This, of course, brought about important recognition. The General heard of it; heard, too, that the Captain of Company Q did not, from some crotchet, some whimsy, wish to be a regular soldier.

“Zebedee,” he said, “you are a brave man.”

Zebedee’s heart beat high with hope, and the look of exaltation shone in his eyes. Not knowing whether or not to use words, or what words to use, he could only stand stiffly at salute—he knew how to salute, although no drill-master had ever paid attention to him; he had eagerly watched and practised, and was perfect at this as at many other things. He stood rigidly at salute—but his eyes were like the eyes of a faithful dog that hungrily watches his master for a bone.

“I am sorry you are not an enlisted man, Zebedee.”

Ah! how high his heart beat now! To be a corporal—perhaps even a sergeant—

The General went on, speaking slowly so that the full sense of his condescension should sink in: “And so, you shall be my own personal servant.”

Zebedee stood rigid as if he were a piece of mechanism, and all expression was swept from his face as marks are swept from a slate.

And having thus conferred honor, the General went out; he, the great warrior so able to discern the hidden movements of an opposing army, to read the secret plans of an enemy, but quite unable to discern the poignant suffering of a brave man.

Zebedee was a sturdy man, not given to running away or to changeableness. In his heart—the heart of which the surgeon had spoken so contemptuously—he had enlisted for the war; he would not be permitted, so it seemed, to fight the good fight, but he must patiently finish the course and keep the faith.

What mattered it now that by observation he had learned many things besides how to salute! With bitter resignation he would watch the coming and going of officers, the forms and ceremonies of war. At dress parade he knew just when the drums were to march slowly down from the right flank; just when there was to be the thrice-repeated, long, brisk roll; just when the drums were to turn back, with quicker step; just how the commanding officer out there in front would keep his hand upon the hilt of his sword; just when the adjutant would take his place at the front of the line; just when was to come the command, “First sergeants to the front and centre!” The roll of drums, and the crash of music, and the tramp of many feet—and the Captain of Company Q would turn away, his eyes filled with tears, as vague visions came of the heights to which he had aspired when he hurried to enlist—before he knew he had a heart. But he knew it now; he knew it, and it hurt.

In the uncommunicative companionship of General and servant he learned much. He learned to know and almost to love the stern, strong man, who held his men in iron discipline and led them into battle with a fierceness that was almost joy.

There came, too, a sort of liking for Zebedee on the part of the grim officer. He trusted him, sometimes let him write orders, treated him with a curt kindliness, and often permitted him to remain within hearing when discussions went on.

And Zebedee, still in touch with Company Q, which stood more in awe of him than ever, and in touch, since his day of glory, with the men, came also to know and to understand the officers. By observation, divination, putting together this and that, he came to know how much depended upon the personality of the General, and how bitter was the rivalry among those next in command; he knew that they would do their utmost under the overmastering influence of their leader’s spirit, but that jealousy and laxity would work disaster should the potent headship be lost.

And with this there came to Zebedee a new sense of responsibility and pride. When so much depended upon the General, surely the importance was great of the servant who saw to it that he should sleep in comfort and properly eat!

He no longer wore the old clothes whose acquisition had been such pride to him. The General had given him some of his own cast-off things, which fitted him measurably well and relieved the shabbiness of effect which would not have consorted with his present dignity.

There had been a day of fighting, a day of doubt. The General, almost overwhelmingly outnumbered, had fought with splendid skill. But as night fell there went shiveringly through the ranks the rumor that he had been desperately hurt.

The General lay unconscious in his tent. Absolute quiet had been ordered. Zebedee must watch him, nurse him, tend him, and the sentinels must keep even the highest officers away. The sentinels’ duty would be well done, for iron discipline had taught each man to hold the General’s tent a thing sacred.

Absolute silence had been ordered. And, as if heeding, the rattle of musketry died away, the sullen cannon stopped from muttering, even there ceased the sound of trampling feet, of rolling wagons, of the swinging tinkle of canteens. Only the chirring hum of frogs and katydids and tree-toads, the multitudinous murmur of a Virginia summer night, was heard. Then from far in the distance came solemnly the strain, “My country, ’tis of thee,” and the soul of Zebedee was thrilled and uplifted as never before in his poor life.

Once in a while the chief surgeon hurried back from the multitude of other cases that the day had given. In piercing anxiety Zebedee watched by the General’s side. “Has there been any change?” “There has been no change.”

Slowly the hours marched towards morning. The chief surgeon again appeared and led Zebedee outside the tent. “There will be an advance and an engagement at daybreak. The General will sleep for hours. I may be unable to come in again for a while. Be sure to let him sleep. I depend upon you, Zebedee.”

Zebedee had held all surgeons to be his enemies, but here was one that roused his humble devotion. And the words crystallized a feeling which had already come over him with almost oppressive weight—the feeling that upon him, Zebedee, there lay a heavy responsibility. He thought of the renewed battle, now so imminent, and as by a flash of inspiration he saw the results of jealousy and half-hearted co-operation; he saw the soldiers, like frightened children, making an ineffectual stand; the impotency of his position came upon him like pain.

He glanced from the tent. A nebulous lustre marked the glow from the enemy’s fires. Through the air came faintly the mysterious light that tells of the coming of morning. A dull slow wind crept laggard by. Statued sentinels stood stiff and still. Two dimly outlined aides conversed in cautious sibilation. Silently he drew back and returned to the General’s side.

The General still slept. To Zebedee’s anxious ears a soft thudding told of soldiers marching through the feeble light. The sound increased. He knew that shadows were passing by. There was the crunch of heavy wheels and he knew that cannon, sulkily tossing their lowered heads from side to side, were being dragged unwillingly towards fight. Faintly audible firing began in the far distance, and the sulky cannon set up a hoarse and excited cry.

The laggard dawn came with a plumping rain. The candle in the bayonet end flamed yellow. The sounds of distant battle grew more loud.

The General opened his eyes. He sighed with a great weariness. He listened to the sounds, and thought himself again a boy, on a farm, hearing the homely noise of breakfast-dishes and milk-cans and wagons. “I can’t get up—I’m tired,” he said, and his voice was as the querulous voice of a boy. His eyes fell upon Zebedee, and the tense look of dread anxiety almost roused him. He sat up; then fell back, smiling quietly. “I have always trusted you, Zebedee,” he said, simply, in such a tone as Zebedee had never before heard; “always—trusted—you.” And with that, he was dead.

Dead, and the battle was on. To Zebedee it meant the end of all things precious. His mind in its agony lost all sense of proportion. The General was dead!—that was the one important fact in all the universe.

A shell flew over the tent. Already the enemy were advancing! Another shell, and another and another. They fascinated him. In their sounds they marked the full range of life and of passion. One shrieked, one groaned, one muttered like a miser counting gold, one whispered like a child, one was petulant, one expostulated, one whispered softly like a maid confessing love. Zebedee shivered. Suddenly the shell sounds turned to taunts. He could have wept from very impotence. He felt choking, smothered. Passionate cannon began a louder uproar.

The General was dead. Yes; that was the one important fact in all the universe. He, only he, knew!—And suddenly there came an awesome thought.

Even from the first frightened contemplation of it he snatched a fearful joy. He steadied himself. He drew himself up to his full height. He drew a deep breath and stretched out his arms as a man preparing for some feat of strength. His face grew strange, and a thousand tiny wrinkles aged him as the thought bewilderingly grew. His breath came in queer respirations.

The sinister droning of another shell—and doubt fell from him like a garment.

The astonished aides saw the General come forth into the rain, with hat drawn over his face and collar turned up high. Something of menacing austerity in his motions repressed all words of sympathy or dissuasion. In an instant he was upon a horse and had set off at headlong gallop for the front.

Panic had already begun. Men were confusedly huddling, firing distractedly and at random. A curious quaking cry was beginning to arise—the cry of frightened men in hysteria; and ranks were beginning to crumble, and soldiers were on the verge of tumultuous retreat.

But now the General was there! Like magic the news spread. His very presence checked the panic and hysteria. He gave a few quick orders, in a voice so tense and strange that the officers scarcely knew it. His wild, stark energy stirred officers and men into invincibleness. It was as if the fate of all the world and all time hung upon what he could accomplish in the few minutes thus permitted him. He dared not stop to think.

Slowly the enemy crumbled. The sun struggled through the clouds and the colors shone in glorified indistinctness in a wet glitter of sunlight.

It was over now. He turned his horse and rode slowly back towards the tent. “Don’t follow me,” he said, curtly. And he rode back, slowly and alone. The cry of the cannon was now triumphant and glad. A shell, whirling above him, spluttered in futile animosity. The wild cheering was music to his ears.

His dream was over now—the dream he had dreamed when he longed to enlist. He flung up his arms and laughed aloud. His dream! To enlist as a private, to win patiently through grades of sergeant and lieutenant, to captain and colonel and general in command!

He wearily dropped from his horse. He went into the tent. The Captain of Company Q looked down upon the General’s peaceful face.