The Autobiography of Mark Twain · Volume II · The Character of Man · The Character Of Man 27 (2/2)

Fifteen or twenty years ago, Decoration Day happened to be more like the Fourth of July for temperature than like the 30th of May. Twichell was orator of the day. He pelted his great crowd of old Civil War soldiers for an hour in the biggest church in Hartford, while they mourned and sweltered. Then they marched forth and joined the procession of other old soldiers and tramped through clouds of dust to the cemetery and began to distribute the flags and the flowers⁠—a tiny flag and a small basket of flowers to each military grave. This industry went on and on and on, everybody breathing dust⁠—for there was nothing else to breathe; everybody streaming with perspiration; everybody tired and wishing it was over. At last there was but one basket of flowers left, only one grave still undecorated. A fiery little major, whose patience was all gone, was shouting:

“Corporal Henry Jones, Company C, Fourteenth Connecticut Infantry⁠—”

No response. Nobody seemed to know where that corporal was buried.

The major raised his note a degree or two higher:

“Corporal Henry Jones, Company C, Fourteenth Connecticut Infantry. Doesn’t anybody know where that man is buried?”

No response. Once, twice, three times, he shrieked again, with his temper ever rising higher and higher:

“Corporal Henry Jones, Company C, Fourteenth Connecticut Infantry. Doesn’t anybody know where that man is buried?”

No response. Then he slammed the basket of flowers on the ground and said to Twichell, “Proceed with the finish.”

The crowd massed themselves together around Twichell with uncovered heads, the silence and solemnity interrupted only by subdued sneezings, for these people were buried in the dim cloud of dust. After a pause Twichell began an impressive prayer, making it brief to meet the exigencies of the occasion. In the middle of it he made a pause. The drummer thought he was through, and let fly a rub-a-dub-dub⁠—and the little major stormed out, “Stop that drum!” Twichell tried again. He got almost to the last word safely, when somebody trod on a dog and the dog let out a howl of anguish that could be heard beyond the frontier. The major said, “God damn that dog!”⁠—and Twichell said, “Amen.”