Page:The Overland Monthly Volume 5 Issue 3.djvu/31

 rated with disgust as to consider mere words an utterly inadequate way of expressing the fullness of their souls, those returning soldiers were that set; and I presume the angel whose duty it was to put the curses, "not loud, but very, very deep," then and there developed, on record, will balance against them the many extenuating circumstances of our condition. But there was no remedy to be found in words of any kind; and, as the geography of our position became fully understood, it was evident to all that our only course was to retrace our entire day's march back to the cation from whence we had that morning started, and from thence take the shortest road to Camp West. A nightcamp here, however unfavorable the position, was inevitable; so our horses were all placed in an inclosure, formed by encircling pickets of three men each, in which duty all were detailed, and sleep prohibited. It being a tongue of land, with deep ravines on two sides, the animals were easily kept from straying. A horse was killed for food, and

we passed the night cheerfully, though without water, or that great solace of a soldier, tobacco; finding our pleasures in chewing burnt horse-flesh and fighting our battles over again.

The march was resumed next day; we passed safely through the cafton, and took our old road on the home-stretch, meeting, on the second day, an escort from the camp with provisions, an ambulance, and medical help. Two days of similar travel brought us into camp, to receive the warm welcome and congratulations of our comrades; and they were so hearty and unmeasured as to compensate for all we had endured.

Lieutenant French soon recovered from his wound; but Hall died in two days after his arrival incamp. His knee was badly shattered by the bullet, and mortification came on rapidly; the difficulty. of his position, having to be carried in a litter made of blankets fastened to poles, had made life a burden to him. We gave him a soldier's funeral, moistening his grave with our tears, and decorating it with our regrets.

AT THE HACIENDA.

I know not whom thou may'st be,

Carven on this olive - tree, **Manuela Della Torre." For around on broken walls

Summer sun and spring rain falls,

And in vain the low wind calls, '¢Manuela Della Torre.'

Of thy song no words remain But the musical refrain, '*Manuela Della Torre.'Yet at night, when winds are still, Tinkles on the distant hill A guitar; and words that thrill Tell to me the old, old story — Old when first thy charms were sung, Old when these old walls were young— Manuela Della Torre