meantime,
the weather had changed, and a disagreeable, drizzling rain was
falling. Press heaved a deep sigh when informed of his detail, and
began to beg and protest. I told him that the doctor had refused to
excuse him, that he was the next man on the roll for duty, that I had
no discretion in the matter, and he would have to get ready and go.
But, if he was feeling worse, I would go with him again to the doctor,
and request him to look further into his case. Press sprang out of his
bunk with a bound, and grabbed his trousers. "Before I'll ever go
again," he said, "to that hawk-nosed old blankety-blank-blank, to get
excused from duty, I'll see him in hell further than a pigeon can fly
in a leap year. He hasn't got sense enough, anyhow, to doctor an old
dominecker hen that is sick with a sore [anus], much less a civilized
human being. You could let me off this detail, if you wanted to, and
let me tell you, Stillwell, if this trip kills me, which it probably
will, I want you to remember, as long as you live, that the
responsibility for my death lies on your head!" This last statement, I
will confess, rather staggered me, and had it been delivered in a weak
and pitiful tone, there is no telling what I might have done. But he
didn't "roar" me "as gently as a sucking dove," by a long shot, for his
voice was full and loud, and quivering with energy and power. So I made
no response to this dire prediction; Press got ready, and went. The
weather cleared up in a few hours, and was bright and pleasant, but
nevertheless I became very uneasy about Press. If the old fellow really
was sick, and if, by any possibility, this detail should result in his
death, why, then, I felt that his last words would haunt me as long as
I lived. I waited anxiously for the return of the scouting party, and
when the whistle of the boat was heard on its arrival at the Bluff,
went at once to the landing to learn the fate of Press, and stood on
the bank where the men could be seen as they came ashore. Presently
here came Press, very much alive, and looking fine! He bore, transfixed
on his bayonet, a home-cured ham of an Arkansas hog; the tail feathers
of a chicken were ostentatiously protruding from the mouth of his
haversack, and which receptacle was also stuffed well-nigh to bursting
with big, toothsome yams. And later the fact was developed that his
canteen was full of sorghum molasses. As he trudged up the road cut
through the bank, his step was spri