``A boy up there in the Berkshires, a neighbor's son, was John Ring; I call him a boy, for we all called him a boy, and we looked upon him as a boy, for he was under-sized and under-developed--so much so that he could not enlist.
``But for some reason he was devoted to me, and he not only wanted to enlist, but he also wanted to be in the artillery company of which Iwas captain; and I could only take him along as my servant. I didn't want a servant, but it was the only way to take poor little Johnnie Ring.
``Johnnie was deeply religious, and would read the Bible every evening before turning in. In those days I was an atheist, or at least thought Iwas, and I used to laugh at Ring, and after a while he took to reading the Bible outside the tent on account of my laughing at him! But he did not stop reading it, and his faithfulness to me remained unchanged.
``The scabbard of the sword was too glittering for the regulations''--the ghost of a smile hovered on Conwell's lips--``and I could not wear it, and could only wear a plain one for service and keep this hanging in my tent on the tent-pole. John Ring used to handle it adoringly, and kept it polished to brilliancy.--It's dull enough these many years,'' he added, somberly. ``To Ring it represented not only his captain, but the very glory and pomp of war.
``One day the Confederates suddenly stormed our position near New Berne and swept through the camp, driving our entire force before them;and all, including my company, retreated hurriedly across the river, setting fire to a long wooden bridge as we went over. It soon blazed up furiously, making a barrier that the Confederates could not pass.
``But, unknown to everybody, and unnoticed, John Ring had dashed back to my tent. I think he was able to make his way back because he just looked like a mere boy; but however that was, he got past the Confederates into my tent and took down, from where it was hanging on the tent-pole, my bright, gold-scabbarded sword.
``John Ring seized the sword that had long been so precious to him. He dodged here and there, and actually managed to gain the bridge just as it was beginning to blaze. He started across. The flames were every moment getting fiercer, the smoke denser, and now and then, as he crawled and staggered on, he leaned for a few seconds far over the edge of the bridge in an effort to get air.
Both sides saw him; both sides watched his terrible progress, even while firing was fiercely kept up from each side of the river. And then a Confederate officer--he was one of General Pickett's officers--ran to the water's edge and waved a white handkerchief and the firing ceased.
`` `Tell that boy to come back here!' he cried.
`Tell him to come back here and we will let him go free!'
``He called this out just as Ring was about to enter upon the worst part of the bridge--the cov-ered part, where there were top and bottom and sides of blazing wood. The roar of the flames was so close to Ring that he could not hear the calls from either side of the river, and he pushed desperately on and disappeared in the covered part.
``There was dead silence except for the crackling of the fire. Not a man cried out. All waited in hopeless expectancy. And then came a mighty yell from Northerner and Southerner alike, for Johnnie came crawling out of the end of the covered way--he had actually passed through that frightful place--and his clothes were ablaze, and he toppled over and fell into shallow water; and in a few moments he was dragged out, unconscious, and hurried to a hospital.
``He lingered for a day or so, still unconscious, and then came to himself and smiled a little as he found that the sword for which he had given his life had been left beside him. He took it in his arms. He hugged it to his breast. He gave a few words of final message for me. And that was all.''
Conwell's voice had gone thrillingly low as he neared the end, for it was all so very, very vivid to him, and his eyes had grown tender and his lips more strong and firm. And he fell silent, thinking of that long-ago happening, and though he looked down upon the thronging traffic of Broad Street, it was clear that he did not see it, and that if the rumbling hubbub of sound meant anything to him it was the rumbling of the guns of the distant past. When he spoke again it was with a still tenser tone of feeling.
``When I stood beside the body of John Ring and realized that he had died for love of me, Imade a vow that has formed my life. I vowed that from that moment I would live not only my own life, but that I would also live the life of John Ring. And from that moment I have worked sixteen hours every day--eight for John Ring's work and eight hours for my own.''
A curious note had come into his voice, as of one who had run the race and neared the goal, fought the good fight and neared the end.
``Every morning when I rise I look at this sword, or if I am away from home I think of the sword, and vow anew that another day shall see sixteen hours of work from me.'' And when one comes to know Russell Conwell one realizes that never did a man work more hard and constantly,``It was through John Ring and his giving his life through devotion to me that I became a Christian,'' he went on. ``This did not come about immediately, but it came before the war was over, and it came through faithful Johnnie Ring.''
There is a little lonely cemetery in the Berkshires, a tiny burying-ground on a wind-swept hill, a few miles from Conwell's old home. In this isolated burying-ground bushes and vines and grass grow in profusion, and a few trees cast a gentle shade; and tree-clad hills go billowing off for miles and miles in wild and lonely beauty.
And in that lonely little graveyard I found the plain stone that marks the resting-place of John Ring.
