As his officers had predicted from the beginning, Bob Bannister was rapidly promoted. For meritorious conduct, for brave deeds, to fill vacancies above him as the grim tragedy of war played itself out, he donned his corporal’s stripes, exchanged them for a sergeant’s, added the orderly’s diamond, and finally, in the fall of ’64, his shoulders were decorated with the straps of a first lieutenant. When this happened his company held a jubilee. He was a mere boy, indeed, not long past eighteen, possibly the youngest commissioned officer in the Army of the Potomac; but the men of his command trusted him, believed in him, loved him, and would have followed him wherever he chose to lead, even to the gates of death. But Rhett Bannister was not promoted. That was not, however, the fault of his officers. Nor was it that his conduct was not splendidly soldier-like and meritorious,--it was simply because he would not have it so. It was after Cold Harbor that Captain Baker called him one night to company headquarters,--Howarth had long ago been invalided home,--and said to him:-- “Bannister, I am going to make a sergeant of you.” “But, captain--” “Oh, I know how you feel, but there’s no help for it. Brady’s dead, Holbert’s a prisoner, and Powelton and Gray can’t do the work. You must take it.” “Captain, I beg of you not to do it. Be good to me. I’ll fight anywhere. I’ll take any mission. I’ll face any danger. But I can’t accept an office in the army of the United States. I told you this when you spoke of making me a corporal. I repeat it now. If I were to accept this honor I never could fight again, I never could look the boys in the face again, I would feel so cowardly and ashamed and dismayed. Don’t do it, captain, I beseech you, don’t do it! Let me fight in the ranks and be contented and happy as I am to-night.”