IEUT. RICHARD NELSON sat on the veranda with Mr. and Mrs. Ritter and their daughter. Their long afternoon was nearly done, and the little hill upon the slope of which the house was built threw a cool and grateful shadow over them. Mr. Ritter was an American missionary in the little town of Ping-Yurn on the Hoang-Ho, a short distance from the Gulf of Pe-Chi-Li. During the incipiency of the Boxer insurrection, when the United States soldiers were hurried to China, Lieutenant Nelson with Company A, sixty strong, had been stationed here to guard supplies.
The place had been selected because of its natural strength, and because the vicinity was not regarded as belonging to the disaffected district. The sluggish yellow river, here cut down between high and almost insurmountable banks, ran in a long oxbow curve, at the open end of which the town was situated, while within the curve were two "sugar-loaf" hills with the river on three sides of them and the town on the fourth. On the larger of the two hills, Company A had constructed earthworks and stored the precious powder, ammunition, and food. On the eastern slope of the smaller hill was the red-roofed bungalow occupied by the Ritters.
Lieutenant Nelson had pressed the missionary and his family to take refuge in the little fortress, but they had declined, thinking the danger a thing far off. So the young officer, at their invitation, had taken up his abode with them, with a detail of four men for sentry duty. His captain was on detached service, the first lieutenant in the hospital at Manila, and this was Nelson's first independent command.. Here the last ten days had been passed pleasantly and uneventfully, albeit with many anxious speculations as to the fate of their less fortunate compatriots.
A third of a mile away. Company A gambled and grumbled and cursed their inglorious inactivity fluently and earnestly.
"Lieutenant," said Mrs. Ritter that evening, looking across the valley to the little fort, "your men are nearly all Southerners, are they not?"
"All of them, Mrs. Ritter, and nearly all Virginians at that." He spoke with a deprecatory modesty which left it to be inferred that, to his notion at least, he was bestowing the highest possible praise. "Fine fellows. When the call for volunteers for the Spanish War was issued, they were the first to respond. That is how we came to be Company A. Now don't say 'F. F. V's,' Miss Ritter; I see it trembling on your lips."
"Indeed, I am only surprised," returned that young lady laughing, "that the F. F. V's answered the call so promptly. I am afraid"— hesitating a little—"had I been on the south of Mason and Dixon's line, I should not have forgotten so soon."
The soldier's face grew grave. "We have not forgotten," he said. "We have forgiven—as we hope we are forgiven. It was inevitable—and best—that we should lose. We are loyal to the Stars and Stripes—but we have not forgotten the Stars and Bars. There is more pride than sorrow in our memories. And when the haughty Lees and the fiery Wheeler set us the example, we youngsters who know the Great War only in twilight tales and legends could hardly do less than follow."
He hesitated a moment, his boyish cheek flushing, and then addressed Mr. Ritter.
"Do you know—I have a Confederate flag I carry with me always?" He lowered his voice reverently. "It was my father's!"
Mr. Ritter frowned (he had been a stern soldier of the North), but Alice sprang up in delight.
"O do get it, Lieutenant! I have never seen a Confederate flag in my life! Don't mind papa—he has seen it before, but I haven't."
Nelson laughed and went to his room. He quickly returned with a parcel which he unfolded, and spread a small battle flag before them.
Such a stained and torn and tattered banner! Its colors were dimmed by time and rain—it was rent and scarred by the storm of battle—its edges frayed by the winds of four desperate years!
"The blood of a kinsman made one of these many stains," said Nelson. "A shell made this gash at Fair Oaks—these bullets tore through in the Seven Days. Here, and here, are the marks of Antietam." His voice grew low and tense—he looked at the flag as if he had forgotten the others. "When Pickett's ten thousand charged on the last terrible day at Gettysburg, this flag led the van—and one of my name and blood rode beside it. And when it reeled back in defeat, for the first time—but not the last!—O, not the last!—the fate of the Southern Confederacy was sealed! Where my father and this flag turned back that day marked the high tide of the Rebellion! It flew afterward in many a losing fight—but after that fatal day it was the symbol only of a forlorn hope!"