Work for Single Souls in Army Life

In army life, as in quiet home life, the way to reach the many is to reach the one. The best way to get one’s ear is to have his ear alone. Although in my three years of army life I was rarely away from the many, I found, there as elsewhere, that my best work for Christ was not in public address, but in watching for opportunities, or in improving unlooked-for occasions, when I could speak from my heart to another’s heart, without being heard by another, even if others were near us. All my army-life experience tended to convince me that this was the best way to work for Christ with souls.

My first experience under fire was on a

winter Sunday in Eastern North Carolina.

We had bivouacked for the night in an

opn field, when starting on a raid into Coogle

Individual Wotk

the enemy’s country. As we rose in the early morning to make ready for a march, the blazing camp-firesp on every side, throwing their lurid light on the stacked arms, and the moving soldiers, with the hum of conflicting voices, made a weird and impressive scene; and as I heard for the first time the command, to a company near where I stood, “Load at will,” followed by the ring of the rammers in the steel rifle barrels driving home the cartridges, I was thrilled by the sounds as never before. Realizing, as I did, that when those rifles were discharged it would be in deadly con* flict, and that before the day should close some of the brave men near me would probably be in the presence of their Maker, I had a sense of responsibility for souls as never before, yet as often afterwards.

Moving about among the fire-lit groups, and looking for a man standing by himself, I came upon a soldier, a bright Connecticut boy, with whom I had often spoken in camp. He was arranging his belt at the 74

Wotk tot Single Sottl0 in Brmig X4f e

moment I spoke to him cheerily of the activities of the hour, and of the possibilities of the coming day. Then I asked him tenderly if he had committed himself trustfully to his Saviour.

“Ah, Chaplain! This is no time to think of such things. It would unfit me ibr a fight if I got to thinking about mysdf just now.”

“It is alwayrs a time, Sergeant, for thinking about Him who is able to care for us in every hour of life or of death, and who loves us more than we can ever love him. But if you don’t want to talk about this now I shall come to you when we are back in camp, if we get there together once more; and then, certainly, I can have a good talk with you about this matter, for I want you to do your duty.”

Our raid was a successful one, and soon we were back in camp once more. I looked up my young sergeant friend, and told him that I had come to renew our conversation of the morning after our first night’s 75 lniviual WMk

bivouac, on the recent raid. I had a plain, earnest talk with him. He promised to go, in need and trust, to his Saviour, and commit himself to him for life and death. After a while, when we were in St Augustine, we organized a regimental church, and this young sergeant was the first one to stand up and make a confession of his Saviour, in the presence of his regimental comrades and others. Later he connected himself with his home church in Connecticut, on my certificate of his confession of &ith while in army life in the South.

That experience with my first young convert in the army encouraged me in my individual work with individuals there. I saw that it were better to make a mistake in one’s first effort at a personal religious conversation, and correct that mistake afterwards, than not to make any effort There can be no mistake so bad, in working for an individual soul for Christ, as the fatal mistake of not making any honest endeavor. How many persons refrain from 76

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doing anything lest they should possibly do the wrong thing just now! Not doing is the worst of doing. “Inasmuch as ye did it not, depart from me” is a foretold sentence of the Judge of all

When first I joined my rment in North Carolina, I found there a young lieutenant, whom I had known as an active, earnest Christian worker in his Connecticut home. As I was looking up the members of my new charge, I called on him in his tent, and said something of my hope to have his help in work for my Master.

“No, no. Chaplain,” said he, ‘* I’ve given up all that stuff. I know now that there’s no truth in it, and I don’t want to hear a word on the subject”

“You are not saying now what you believe. Lieutenant”

“What do you mean, Chaplain?”

I mean that I know you well enough to understand that what you said and did, 77

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for years, m your fiutyiil Christian wofic and in your Sunday-sdiool teaching, has not bei given up by you out of your inmost heart You can talk this amy to me now, to try to stiffen up your courage of resistance; but when the camp is quiet, and you are alone on your bunk in the darkness, you would never talk in this way to your God, who you know is near you always.”

•’Well,’* he said, somewhat more gendy, I don’t want to talk about this subject, at any rate.**

*” But I must talk about it,* I said ‘If s very real to me. And I’m here because of my belie£ I love you too deariy to refrain from speaking to you, and uing you to come back to your old love and faith and duty and joy.”

Weeks passed on. When I saw the Lieutenant in his tent I would show him that I, at least, hadn’t lost my faith; yet I refirauned from provoking any discusmon on the subiect He seemed to be grattful for my in- 78 miotli tor Single doul0 in fitmis %ite

terest in him, and he never again gave an expression of his unbelief, nor did he say that which would jar on me. I tried to reach him by indirect means, in talking about former interests and persons con* nected with our work together for our common Master. In this way, at times, the truth we had both then held dear would come into prominence; but no word of unpleasant difference was a result

After a little there came on a battle in which our regiment lost severely. Several temporary hospitals were opened in smalt dwelling-houses in different parts of the field of action. As I was occupied in one of these hospitals, I heard that my lieutenant friend lay wounded in another. As soon as I had opportunity, I went over to see him. His right leg had been amputated near the hip. He lay on a cot among many wounded. Looking up as I approached he said cheerily:

•The Lord has got me, Chaplain. X wouIdnt serve him with two legs, 80 99 he took away one. But now 111 be more of a man with one 1^ than I was with two,**

Then as I spoke wannly of my sympathy with and interest in him, he told of his experience and feelings.

As my I^ went out from mider me, and I felt I was gone, I said, ‘The Lord’s got me, and I’m glad of it* You were right. Chaplain, that day you came to my tent first, I never really gave up my belief or had any rest in my life trying to live without fiuth. And now I believe I shall live nearer the Lord than ever, and have more comfort in him.”

He was confident that he should soon be restored to health, and that he should use his new strength in the Lord’s service. I had pleasant interviews with him as he talked of his plans in Christ’s service, and he gave convincing evidence of hb Chris* tian love and bith. But the shock of the amputation was severer than he at first supposed, and he soon sank away to bis final to

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rest The prodigal had returned to his loving Father’s home.

Army-transport life gave mai an op* portunity of personal work with souls, as well as did public preaching. Along the Atlantic coast the Civil War demanded frequent and varied use of transports. At one time in North Carolina our division made a raid into the interior of the state, cutting itself off from its base of supplies, and exposing itself to capture by a force of the enemy in its rear. It seemed, both to us and to the enemy, that we were hopelessly hemmed in; but, at the close of the day in which we had accomplished the main object of our raid, we turned directly toward a river, and on reaching its banks found a number of small vessels waiting there to receive us, in accordance with the plan of our commanding general These transports had been brought up to this point so that we might board them, and quietly slip down the stream during the 8i

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night, thus flanking the iorce tlut had come into our rear.

Boarding those vessels and getting under way was an exciting movemit If the enemy discovered our position in seas<m to attack us before we were £urly started, there was little hope of escape fipr us. The skipper of the craft on which our r;iment embarked was a character. He t the respcmsibilities of the hour, and he gave evidence of this in his superabundant fnrofimity* accompanying every order which he issued I had never heard such abounding and varied oaths as he poured out in the half-hour from the time we heai to come on board till we were fiurly afloat and were moving down the stream. Of course then was no time to begin preachii to him. I could merely watch and study him. But that I did with real interest

When, at last, all was quiet, and the evening had come on, and the old skipper was evidently gratified with the success of the movement so far, I accosted him with motfctor Stngft S<ml0 In Btmc Utt

complimitaiy words as to the skill and energy he had shown in his conunand This opened up a conversation, in the course of which he told of other exciting ejcperiences he had had in qther parts of the woHd I listened attentively, and he saw that I was appreciative and sympathetic Presently he spoke of a particularly perilous time he once had on the coast of Africa.

“Ahp Captain I I suppose you had charge of a slaver then,” I said-Seeing that he had given himself away/* he replied, with a quiet chuckle:

•’Yes, Chaplain, I’ve been up to purty nigh ev’rythin’, in my time, *cept piety.**

•Well, Captain/* I responded/* wouldn’t it be worth your while to try your hand at that also before you die, so as to make the whole round ?••

*’Well, I suppose that would be feir, Chaplain/*

The way was now open for a free and kindly talk. As we stood together there, 83 liU>MMuil WMk

on the vessel’s deck, going down the stream by night, we talked pleasantly and earnestly, and I got at the early memories of his boyhood life in New England. Then I knew I was near his heart By and by, all of us made ready for the night There was but one berth in the cabin. That was the captain’s. Our officers were to sleep on the cabin floor. The captain said to me:

“Chaplain, you turn in in my stateroom. There’s a good berth there.”

“No, no, thank you. Captain,” I said. “Let the Colonel take that”

“It isn’t the Colonel’s room; it’s mine, and I want fou to take it”

“It would never do,” I said, “for the Colonel to sleep on the floor while I slept in a berth. But I thank you just as much for your kindness. Captain.”

I lay down with the other officers on the

cabin floor. While I was asleep I felt my

self being rolled around, and I found that

the captain had pulled his mattress out of Wotlt tot Single Scute in Titmtt

his berth, and laid it on the floor, and he was now roiling me on to it I appreciated the gnifl* kindness of the old slaver-skipper, and my heart was drawn the closer to this new parishioner of mine. Nor did I lose my hold on him when we were fairly at New Berne, at the close of this trip. I was again with him in the waters of South Carolina, and he came again and again to our regimental chapel -tent on St Helena Island to attend religious services there. I saw that I had a hold on him.

One week-day he called at my tent, having a brother skipper with him, whom he introduced to me, and then fell back, leaving us together. He joined my tent-mate, the adjutant, and stood watching while I talked with the new comer. He told the adjutant, with a string of oaths, that his foolish friend didn’t believe there was a God, so he’d “brought him over here for the chaplain to tackle.” It was fresh evidence that life was stirring in him, and that therefore he wanted another saved 85 tn&itrt2>ual tR&otti

When the war was over, I heard of that slaver-skipper in his New England seaport home. At more than threescore years of age he had come as a little child to be a disciple of Jesus; he had connected himself with the church, and was living a consistent Christian life. He was honestly trying his hand at “piety” before he died, and so was completing the round of Itfe’s occupation. For this I was glad.

In some instances I was not sure of the result, or gin, of a special conversation in the army on the subject of personal religion, until long afterwards, but the doing of duty never depends on our knowledge of the gain or results. A letter came to me from the good parents of a Connecticut boy in our regiment They wanted me to reach him, for Christ, if I could, while they were praying for him and for me in their home. I took this as laying a special mission on me, and I sought him out at once.

I found him in our regimental hospital, 86

IHlotIt tot 0(ii0le 9kml0 imMvm Kte

under medical treatment ju9t then. Al* though there were other patients in the ward, I could sit down by his cot and be practically alone with him. As I sat there on a Sunday afternoon I talked of his Connecticut home, with which I was acquainted. I spoke of the Sabbath and its influences, as it was in the country in Connecticut, in contrast with what it was in our Southern camp life. As I talked I took his hand in mine and stroked it in tenderness.

I said nothing of his parents’ letter to me, but I spoke of their loving interest in him, and of the certainty that such parents were pra)ring constantly for their loved son in the army. I urged him to conmiit himself to their Saviour as his Saviour. As I talked this way I saw the tears dropping on both our hands, and I knew his heart was touched. After he was out from the hospital, I saw him while about his duties in the regiment, and I had pleasant talks with him on the subject of which I had spoken 87 ftMvfDoal

in die hospital, but I could not get him to commit himsdf to a positive avowal of his surrender and his trust

But the time came when the young soldier was at his home again, when the war was over. Then he wrote, thanking me for my interest in him, and tdling me that because of it he was ging to stand up on a G>mmunion Sunday, in the old home church, where his fiither was a deacon, and confess his £uth in that other’s Saviour. Then he went back to that Sunday in the hospital when I stroked his hand and his tears fell on our hands.

After you’d gone out that day, Cbsip’ lain,’’ he said, ‘’I cursed you because of what you’d been doing and saydng. I was afraid that some of the other fellows had seen me weeping; and I said you were mean to take advantage of a fellow when he was sick, but now I’m so glad you didif*

Again he wrote other letters in the same grateful strain. Then he wrote me that he

Tmorlt tot Sinale Souto in Bcmis %ite

had named his first little boy after his chaplain, and that he wanted me to have an interest in that boy.

One evening, as I was returning to my evening quarters, I saw the gleam of a faint light through a low shelter-tent in our regimental camp. It was long after “Lights Out ‘^ had been sounded, and I stooped and scratched at the tent entrance as a signal that I wanted to enter. A call, “Come in,” responded, and I crept in. A soldier, seated on the ground, was writing home by a small tallow candle, and I knew that any soldier was in an accessible mood when thinking of his home. So I talked with him about home. A sister, a devoted Christian, was, he said, very dear to him. She had urged him to yield himself to Christ, and he was writing to her that very evening.

I felt that the occasion was a peculiar

one, and I must improve it I urged him

to a decision at that very time, and I would

not consent that he should postpone it I

89
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saw that all he needed was to come to the act of decision, and there might never be a better moment for this with him than now. So there I remained with him, pleading for Christ until far into the night I knew that there would probably never be a more convenient season’* than this. And his strong New England mind evidently took in this fact He was considering the matter wdL Finally, he voluntarily knelt with me beneath that shelter-tent, and deliberately consecrated himself to the Saviour’s care and service. At this I rejoiced with him, and thanked my God and his. Then, giving my hand to him, I wei on to wy quarters with a happier heart

It was but a little while after this, that, in an engagement in which we had a part, he was killed; and as I ssdd earnest words of prayer over the grave in which we buried him, and as I looked down into his dead fatce, I was glad that I waited that memorable night until he knelt by my side and gave himself up to his loving and 90

TRAotlt tot Sinole Soute in Bcms Xtte

waiting Saviour. And when I wrote to that faithful and praying sister, and told her of that midnight hour of his deliberate consecration, her sister heart was com* forted and gladdened, and she wrote me grateful words for my interest in her loved brother, feeling that her many prayers for him had been answered.

I was in the habit of inviting soldiers to come to my tent, or other quarters, to talk with me of personal religion. Sometimes they seemed to gain little help by such conversation. At other times a few words were evidently sufficient for their needs. One young soldier, from an adjoining regi* nient, came in anxiety as to his spiritual condition. I tried to make his duty and his privilege plain, but I did not seem to succeed. I prayed with and for him, but he did not find peace. He said that he must now return to his regiment, but he would come and see me again.

As he went out, I handed him a copy of 91

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a Kttlc Soldier’s Hymn-Book, which was the only reading-matter I had for distribution. When I met him again, his &ce was bright with the cheeriness of glad hope. As I asked him about himself, he replied:

“You tried to make it pkun to me, Chaplain, but I didn’t get any help. But, as I came away from your quarters, I opened that little hymn-book, and I read:

‘Just as I am, and waiting not
To rid my soul of one dark blot.
To thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot,
O Lamb of God, 1 come I ’

And then it was all clear to me.”

After the war, I was in Tremont Temple, when Moody was back there for the first time after having left Boston for Chicago. That soldier convert waved his hand to me across the hall. I found, after* wards, that he was now in active Christian work in that vicinity, and that on that account he was attending that convention* When I knew this, I thanked God that

TRAotft tor Single SOUI0 tn Tixrn Xite

Charlotte Elliott’s hymn had helped him more than I could to see the way of peace.

There were strange characters, as well as strange experiences, encountered in my army Christian work. The army brought all sorts of persons together, and I had to become acquainted with and interested in them all. While at St Augustine, Florida, in the winter of 1863-64, a part of our regiment did garrison duty at the old Spanish coquina fort, with its bloody memories and its weird legends of former occupants. I was accustomed to hold Sunday-school services each Sunday afternoon, and also mid-week evening services, in the little chapel opposite the main entrance of the fort Just outside of that chapel there was a pile of rusty cannon, on which men would sometimes loll while we were having services inside. And as I moved about the fort I had many a talk with men whom I rarely met so familiarly elsewhere.

One day, in waUdi tfaroogli the fort. Toy attention was drawn to a strange bet glaring through an iron-barred opening of a dungeon door in the so u t h western corner cf the casemated walls. It was the most repulsive bee I had ever seen. Lowbrowedy coarse-fiatured, dark-comjdexionedy with small black eyes under shaggy eydbrowsy and thick sensuous lips, it seemed like a cross between a Digger Indian and a New Zealand native, with the worst peculiarities of both. The expression was one of low cuiming, with a mixture of hate and derision. It was an unhuman &ce, yet the man who bore it was eadently one of my parishioners, or he would not be where he was.

‘’Who are you, my friend?” I said.
“Where do you belong?**

He answered in a low, gruff voices as if he were resenting an attack.

I belong to the Tenth Connecticut*

“You belong to the Tenth Connecticut!” I said oototn foe Amaie dome m fitmy txte

* Why, then I’m your chaplain, and Tve got an interest in you.**

As I kindly questioned the man, I found that he had been most of the time since his enlistment in confinement for insubordination, and therefore I had not met hinu After a brief talk I left him. Soon he was released from confinement, and was again with his comrades. I saw him occasionally, and spoke to him kindly, but I did not look upon him as a hopeful case in comparison with others, and had comparatively little to say to him. It seems, however, that I had gained more of a hold on him than I was disposed to recognize.

After a while, we left Florida for Virginia. As we moved up along the coast in a crowded transport, this man came to me in the throng, and said softly:

Misser Chaplin, I want to talk to you.*

*’ Well, I’m always glad to talk to you,** I said. But where can we go to talk? Let us lean over the steamer’s rail. That is our only place to talk by ourselves.** 95

1llipfDlu mock

As we leaned there together, he told me his strange, pathetic story.

‘’Misser Chaplin, you ‘member when you talked to me at the dungeon door. You spoke kind to me. You said you’s my chaplin. I never forget that, Misser Chaplin. I’m a rough feller; I never knowed much. I suppose I’m human, thafs about alL I never had no bring in’ up. Fust I knowed o’ mjrself I was in the streets o’ New Orleans. Never knowed a &ther or mother. I was kicked about I came North and ‘listed in army.* I’ve had a hard time of it My cap’n hates the very groun’ I tread on.”

Then with a chuckle and a leer, as he thought of his Ishmaditish life, he said: ‘’I dtdviorry my cap’n. And he hated me. Ten months with ball and chain! A hard time of it I But what you said at the dungeon door’s all true. And what you said in prayer-meetin’ is all true.”

“Prayer-meeting! “I said. “I never saw you in prayer-meeting.”

tniotli tot Slngft Souto tn Htms Xife

Nov I was jus’ outside, on those old cannon. And now, Misser Chaplin, I want to do right Misser Chaplin, I suppose we’s goin’ into a fight, and I want to do my duty. They say I’m a coward. I’ve never been in a fight, but I want to do my duty.” As a fiiend of mine, to whom I told this story, said, ‘*The only religious instruction this man ever got was through eaves-dropping at a prayer-meeting.”

Then in a voice strangely tender in contrast with the first gruff utterance which I heard from him in the dungeon, he said: “Misser Chaplin, you’re the only man who ever spoke kind to me. If I get killed I want you to have my money. And if I get killed, won’t you have it writ in the paper that Lino died for his country?”

That was another noteworthy incident in my personal Christian work for others. We reached Virginia. We were in a fight Lino bore himself so bravely that his captain, whom he had worried so long, called him out before the entire company, at the 97 ltt^M^ual tniotii

close of the engagement, and commended him for his bravery and good service. Hearing of this, I looked him up after the fight was over, and congratulated him on his well-doing in active battle.

YouVe done bravely, I hear, line, and rm glad of if*

**yes,’* he said, with a softer chuckle than before. **They called me a coward, but I tried to do my duty, Tain’t always the frisky ox that’s at the &r end of the yoke.**

That long friendless man showed, in his way, his intention of doing what God would have him do. Who of us has better improved his opportunities?

God’s estimates are not as man’s estimates, and we have reason to rejoice that this is so. He loves us not for what we are, but for what he is. How often it is that we fail to exert ourselves in behalf of a soul for Christ because that soul seems to

VAotli tot Sittdle Sould in Btmis Xite

us not a hopeful subject, either on account of his morals or of his intellect

Among the recruits picked up in Connecticut, for the sake of the bounty, in the later years of the Civil War, were some men who would not have been accepted in the army on their merit One such man in our regiment was below the physical standard, and he seemed beneath a fair average of intelligence. He was a laughing-stock in the regiment He was not competent for a soldier’s duty. He was unable to drilL So he was put at a menial duty, and became a byword and a butt I do not think that it occurred to me, at that time, that he was a proper subject for religious conversation, I am speaking of what was, not of what ought to have been. Possibly the confession of my lack will suggest to some one else the impropriety of such a £tilure.

One day, in St Augustine, as I was walking on the parapet of the old Spanish fort, T came upon this man. No one else 99

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was just then in sight, and it seemed as if it would be taking nothing from others if I said a word to him. So I stopped to talk with him. Calling him by his regimental nickname, I asked:

‘’Do you ever pray?*’

‘’I say ‘Dure Farther/*’ was his thick and drawling responsa

*’ Who is your Father? I asked

That question he couldn’t answer. He had only, by some one, been taught by rote to say the words of that prayer. Then I took him as a little child, — as, indeed, he was a little child in intellect; and I told him of God as his loving Father in heaven, who would be glad to have him pray to him. And I told of Jesus and his love. He listened like a glad child who was taking in a child’s lesson, and he seemed to comprehend what I was saying, as well as any of us can comprehend these truths. From that time I had a new interest in that soldier boy, and he seemed to be showing signs of awakened life. He Moth tot Single Soul a in Btmis Xife

welcomed my interest in him, and he responded gratefully to every word of counsel or suggestion from me. I reproached myself that I had not been readier to estimate him as God estimates every soul whom the Saviour loves and died for.

After the war was over I was, one Sunday evening, to make an address in a Connecticut city. As I entered the outer door of the prominent church, a bright-faced young man stepped forward to greet me, calling me by name. As I looked the second time, I saw that it was that anything but hopeful soldier whom I first talked with on the parapet of the old Spanish fort in St Augustine. On inquiry, I found that he had made a public confession of his faith in one of the prominent churches in that city, and that he was witnessing a good confession. He was a regular attendant in the Sunday-schooL As I looked at him, I hoped that I had been of some ser* vice to him; for I was sure he had taught me a good lesson, — a, lesson that I want to

lOI
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pass on to others. Any soul that Jesus loves is worth our best work in its behal£

One day, in Virginia, in the later months of the war, as I passed the regimental guard-quarters, I saw a man tied up by his thumbs at the “wooden horse ‘^ outside those quarters. It was no time to talk with a man in that position; but I quietly noted the face, with the intention of speaking to the man afterwards. Those were the days of substitutes and “bountyjumpers” in lieu of native-bom volunteers, and severe punishments were more in vogue than before. This man was a substitute from over the ocean. He had been enlisted under a false name by a relative in this country, and, with his immediate associates as they were, he had little inducement to do well

Not long after, when I had given notice at the chapel tent that on Tuesday evening I should be glad to see any soldier at my tent who wished to talk as to personal

102 tniotft tot Sfii0le Soute In Htms Xtte

religion this substitute soidier came to my tent on the evening named. I welcomed him heartily, and referred to my special invitation for that evening. He replied, with some embarrassment, that he had not come at that call, but merely to lalk with me on another matter. I asked if his special business could wait a little, while I spoke of the matter to which I had devoted the evening. He said that the other thing could wait Then I told him of my personal interest in him, and urged the surrender of his life to his Saviour. His response profoundly impressed me as disclosing the workings of his inner lifa

“I’m a very strange man. Chaplain! Now that I’m talking with you, I realize the truth of all you say, and Fm not a hypocrite in agreeing with it alL But FU go out from your tent; and it will not be an hour before Fve forgotten all about this talk, and am just as wicked and as wild as ever. And I’ll not think of religion again until, perhaps, Fm on guard some night 103

InMvfMial VBoA

Then when I’m all by myself and the camp is quiet, as I’m passing back and forth on my beat, it will all come back to me again, and 111 see just what a sinner I am, and how like a fool Fve acted; and 111 resolve that, if only I live till morning. Til be a very different man. And FU think that way until the * relief comes round, and I go to the guard-quarters again. And then — will you believe it. Chaplain ? — it will not be five minutes before I’m swearing and scoffing as if I’d never had a serious thought in my life. O Chaplain I I’m a very strange man, sir; a very strange man I” As this my soldier parishioner, whose strangeness consisted mainly in his exceptional understanding of the workings of his own heart, talked thus with me of his moral struggles and need, I was drawn to him by an interest that never intermitted while he lived. He came to be a brave soldier. When the war was over, he became an active worker in a prominent New England church. He took an exception-IQ4

Moth for Single SOUI0 in Btms Xite

ally high stand in business circles, in politic cal life, in military organizations. He was instrumental in leading many who had gone astray back to ways of uprightness; and when his earthly life course had ended his memory was precious in the minds of many who were inspired and aided by his example and efforts, as a specimen worker for Christ won to this work by a timely word of invitation and guidanca

Army life continued far into the days of peace. The intimacies and affections of active service did not end when soldiers left the battle-field for their old home, or for a new one. The revival of personal relations when the chaplain met members of his regimental charge under peculiar circumstances often enabled him to say a word for Christ to an old soldier, which had back of it the force of sacred war memories.

A regimental “pioneer corps” did peculiar army service, and its members often exhibited high qualities of courage and los

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daring. They would go before our column to cut a way through forest or bushes, or to construct a bridge or road, sometimes under the enemy*s sharp fire. To fill their place and do their work was to win honor and regard from officers and men. They would quickly construct a shelter for an officer, which gave him protection and comfort, as he stopped for a night or a week. In doing this they showed rare skill and taste, and made themselves indispensable to the command as a whole.

Some months after the war I was announced to speak, one Sunday evening, in a prominent church in Western Massachusetts. As I rose in the pulpit I saw in the congregation a well-remembered sergeant in our “pioneer corps.” He was one of the bravest of the brave, always prompt and ready in whatever he had to do. Hearing that I was to speak, he had come to listen to his old chaplain. The pastor in whose pulpit I stood told me afterwards that this veteran soldier had a good name io6

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in the community, although he was not a church-member. At once I felt that I must reach him for Christ The chaplain must be faithful that night to the pioneer corps sergeant

At the close of the service the brave old •’pioneer” came forward to gve me greeting. After a talk about our campaigning together, I asked him if he wouldn’t go with me for a talk to the parsonage, where I was to pass the night This he was glad to do. By the pastor’s consent I had a room where we could be by ourselves. In a free talk with my old comrade, I found him ready and glad to commit himself wholly to Christ He only needed to know what to do, and to be helped to do it When I asked him if he was ready and willing to take this step now, he assured me that he was. At this we went on our knees together, and the brave soldier of country became a trustful soldier of Christ As I knew of him afterwards, I felt that he was one of many who 107

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needed only the being enlisted to be ready for active, persistent service.

It was with officers as with men. The intimacies and associations of camp and campaigning brought persons together in never-to-be-forgotten relations. Years after the war, men who had been in close companionship as fellow-officers in active service would be closer together in an hour or two of renewed intimacy than fellow-civilians could be in years of association. Every old soldier knows how this was.

On one occasion, I met, in civil life, a fellow-officer, whom I honored and looked up to. In a strange place, we were in crowded quarters, where there was not a separate bed for each. In consequence, we two, who had slept on the field under the same blanket, shared the same hotel bed. Our army experiences made each of us more willing to consent to this arrangement than if we had not been in the army. My io8 vnotk tot Sfitflte Soute in BmiB Xif e

kneeling in prayer, before I lay down, opened the way for a close and loving talk on the precious relations which are between those who are one in Christ, — a union closer than that of fellow-soldiers.

My officer friend, although reverent toward Christ and his salvation, was not ready to express his personal trust in the Saviour. As I tenderly urged him to commit himself to the one Saviour, he confessed that he was not ready to do so, because of a reason that he deemed sufficient As we conversed that night on the subject, he told me that if a certain state of things should ever exist, he would be ready to take the step, as he was not now. That night s conversation and my officer friend’s conditional promise were stored in my mind, and he was a subject of my prayers.

As the months passed on, the state of things which he suggested as likely to change his view as to his personal duty came about When I knew of this change in affairs, I had his promise in mind, and 109 in the earty morning I presented mysdt at his home.

“I told my wife that the chaplain would be up here to see me, after this,” was the greeting that he gave me, as I entered his home. What if I had fiuled to remember my promise at a time like this?

That brave officer was ready to do his duty. He openly took a stand for Christ His influence over others was great He became known throughout the land as a Christian. If I had never been the means of winning any other to a confession of the Saviour, I should fed that all my labors with individuals were more than repaid by the result of that one evening’s talk with this soldier of country and of Christ