One Such Hero I Specially
Remember, As To Whom The Only Natural Remark Would Be That One Would
Not Like To Meet Him Alone On A Dark Night.
He was burly and big,
unwashed and rough, with a black beard, shorn some two months since.
He had sharp, angry eyes, and sat silent, picking his teeth with a
bowie knife.
I met him afterward at the Rolla Hotel, and found that
he was a gentleman of property near Springfield. He was mild and
meek as a sucking dove, asked my advice as to the state of his
affairs, and merely guessed that things had been pretty rough with
him. Things had been pretty rough with him. The rebels had come
upon his land. House, fences, stock, and crop were all gone. His
homestead had been made a ruin, and his farm had been turned into a
wilderness. Everything was gone. He had carried his wife and
children off to Illinois, and had now returned, hoping that he might
get on in the wake of the army till he could see the debris of his
property. But even he did not seem disturbed. He did not bemoan
himself or curse his fate. "Things were pretty rough," he said; and
that was all that he did say.
It was dark when we got into Rolla. Everything had been covered
with snow, and everywhere the snow was frozen. We had heard that
there was a hotel, and that possibly we might get a bed-room there.
We were first taken to a wooden building, which we were told was the
headquarters of the army, and in one room we found a colonel with a
lot of soldiers loafing about, and in another a provost martial
attended by a newspaper correspondent.
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