BULL RUN, July 2l,1881.
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Who Goes There?, by Blackwood Ketcham Benson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Who Goes There? Author: Blackwood Ketcham Benson Release Date: May 1, 2004 [EBook #12229] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHO GOES THERE? *** Produced by Charlie Kirschner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team from images provided by the Million Book Project.
From early childhood I had been subject to a peculiar malady. I say malady for want of a better and truer word, for my condition had never been one of physical or mental suffering. According to my father's opinion, an attack of brain fever had caused me, when five years old, to lose my memory for a time--not indeed my memory entirely, but my ability to recall the events and the mental impressions of a recent period. The physicians had agreed that the trouble would pass away, but it had been repeated more than once. At the age of ten, when occurred the first attack which I remember, I was at school in my native New England village. One very cold day I was running home after school, when my foot slipped on a frozen pool. My head struck the ice, but I felt no great pain, and was almost at once on my feet. I was bewildered with what I saw around me. Seemingly I had just risen from my seat at the breakfast table to find myself in the open air, in solitude, in clothing too heavy, with hands and feet too large, and with a July world suddenly changed to midwinter. As it happened, my father was near, and took me home. When the physicians came, they asked me many questions which I could not understand.
Next morning my father sat by my bed and questioned mo again. He inquired about my studies, about my classmates, about my teacher, about the school games. Many of his questions seemed strange to me, and I answered them in such words that he soon knew there was an interval of more than six mouths in my consciousness. He then tried to learn whether there remained in my mind any effect of my studies during the past term. The result was surprising. He found that as to actual knowledge my mind retained the power developed by its exercise,--without, however, holding all details of fact,--but that, in everything not positive, my experience seemed to have been utterly lost. I knew my multiplication table thoroughly; I had acquired it in the interval now forgotten. I could write correctly, and my ability to read was not lessened. But when questions concerning historical events, either general or local, were asked, my answers proved that I had lost everything that I had learned for the six months past. I showed but little knowledge of new games on the playground, and utter forgetfulness of the reasons for and against the Mexican War which was now going on, and in which, on the previous day, I had felt the eager interest of a healthy boy.
Moreover my brain reproduced the most striking events of my last period of normal memory with indistinct and inaccurate images, while the time preceding that period was as nothing to me. My little sister had died when I was six years old; I did not know that she had ever lived; her name, even, was strange to me.
After a few days I was allowed to rise from bed, to which, in my own opinion, there had never been necessity for keeping me. I was not, however, permitted to go out of doors. The result of the doctors' deliberations was a strict injunction upon my father to take me to the South every winter, a decision due, perhaps, to the fact that my father had landed interests in South Carolina. At any rate, my father soon took me to Charleston, where I was again put to school. Doubtless I was thus relieved of much annoyance, as my new schoolmates received me without showing the curiosity which would have irritated me in my own village.
More than five months passed before my memory entirely returned to me. The change was gradual. One day, at the morning recess, a group of boys were talking about the Mexican War. The Palmetto regiment had distinguished itself in battle. I heard a big boy say, "Yes, your Uncle Pierce is all right, and his regiment is the best in the army." I felt a glow of pride at this praise of my people--as I supposed it to be. More talk followed, however, in which it became clear that the boys were not speaking of Franklin Pierce and his New Hampshire men, and I was greatly puzzled.
A few days afterward the city was in mourning; Colonel Pierce M. Butler, the brave commander of the South Carolina regiment, had fallen on the field of Churubusco.
Now, I cannot explain, even to myself, what relation had been disturbed by this event, but I know that from this time I began to collect, vaguely at first, the incidents of my whole former life; so that, when my father sent for me at the summer vacation, I had entirely recovered my lost memory. I even knew everything that had happened in the recent interval, so that my consciousness held an uninterrupted chain of all past events of importance. And now I realized with wonder one of the marvellous compensations of nature. My brain reproduced form, size, colour--any quality of a material thing seen in the hiatus, so vividly that the actual object seemed present to my senses, while I could feel dimly, what I now know more thoroughly, that my memory during the interval had operated weakly, if at all, on matters speculative, so called--questions of doubtful import, questions of a kind upon which there might well be more than one opinion, being as nothing to my mind. Although I have truly said that I cannot explain how it was that my mind began its recovery, yet I cannot reason away the belief that the first step was an act of sensitive pride--the realization that it made some difference to me whether the New Hampshire regiment or the Palmetto regiment acquired the greater glory.
My father continued to send me each winter to Charleston, and my summers were spent at home. By the time I was fifteen he became dissatisfied with my progress, and decided that I should return to the South for the winter of 1853-4. and that if there should be no recurrence of my mental peculiarity he would thereafter put me in the hands of a private tutor who should prepare me for college.
For fully five years I had had no lapse of memory and my health was sound. At the school I took delight in athletic sports, and gained a reputation among the Charleston boys for being an expert especially in climbing. My studies, while not neglected, were, nevertheless, considered by me as secondary matters; I suppose that the anxiety shown by my father for my health influenced me somewhat; moreover, I had a natural bent toward bodily rather than mental exercise.
The feature most attractive to me in school work was the debating class. As a sort of ex-officio president of this club, was one of our tutors, whom none of the boys seemed greatly to like. He was called Professor Khayme--pronounced Ki-me. Sometimes the principal addressed him as Doctor. He certainly was a very learned and intelligent man; for although the boys had him in dislike, there were yet many evidences of the respect he commanded from better judges than schoolboys. He seemed, at various times, of different ages. He might be anywhere between thirty and fifty. He was small of stature, being not more than five feet tall, and was exceedingly quick and energetic in his movements, while his countenance and attitude, no matter what was going on, expressed always complete self-control, if not indifference. He was dark--almost as dark as an Indian. His face was narrow, but the breadth and height of his forehead were almost a deformity. He had no beard, and yet I feel sure that he never used a razor. I rarely saw him off duty without a peculiar black pipe in his mouth, which he smoked in an unusual way, emitting the smoke at very long intervals. It was a standing jest with my irreverent schoolmates that "Old Ky" owed his fine, rich colour to smoking through his skin. Ingram Hall said that the carved Hindoo idol which decorated the professor's pipe was the very image of "Old Ky" himself.
Our debating class sometimes prepared oratorical displays to which were admitted a favoured few of the general public. To my dying day I shall remember one of these occasions. The debate, so celebrated, between the great Carolinian Hayne and our own Webster was the feature of the entertainment. Behind the curtain sat Professor Khayme, prompter and general manager. A boy with mighty lungs and violent gesticulation recited an abridgment of Hayne's speech, beginning:--
"If there be one State in the Union, Mr. President, and I say it not in a boastful spirit, that may challenge comparison with any other for a uniform, zealous, ardent, and uncalculating devotion to the Union, that State is South Carolina."
Great applause followed. These were times of sectional compromise. I also applauded. We were under the falsely quieting influence of Douglas's Kansas-Nebraska Bill. There was effort for harmony between the sections. The majority of thinking people considered true patriotism to concist in patience and charity each to each. Mrs. Beecher Stowe's "Uncle Tom's Cabin" had appeared, but few Southerners had read it or would read it. I also applauded.
Professor Khayme now came forward on the rostrum, and announced that the next part of the programme would be "'Webster's Reply to Hayne,' to be recited"--and here the professor paused--"by Master Jones Berwick."
I was thunderstruck. No intimation of any kind had been given me that I was to be called on. I decided at once to refuse to attempt an impossibility. As I rose to explain and to make excuses, the boys all over the hall cried, "Berwick! Berwick!" and clapped loudly. Then the professor said, in a low and musical voice,--and his voice was by far his greatest apparent attraction,--that Master Berwick had not been originally selected to recite, but that the young orator chosen the duty had been called away unexpectedly, and that it was well known that Master Berwick, being a compatriot of the great Webster, and being not only thoroughly competent to declaim the abridged form of the speech in question, but also in politics thoroughly at one with the famous orator, could serve with facility in the stead of the absentee, and would certainly sustain the reputation of the club.
How I hated that man! Yet I could see, as I caught his eye, I know not what of encouragement. I had often heard the speech recited, but not recently, and I could not see my way through.
I stumbled somehow to the back of the curtain. The Doctor said to me, in a tone I had never heard before. "Be brave, my boy: I pledge you my word as a gentleman that you shall succeed. Come to this light." Then he seemed to be brushing my hair back with a few soft finger-touches, and I remembered no more until I found myself on the rostrum listening to a perfect din of applause that covered the close of my speech. If there were any fire-eaters in the audience, they were Carolina aristocrats an knew how to be polite, even to a fault.
I could not understand my success: I had vague inward inclination that it was not mine alone. My identity seemed to have departed for the time. I felt that some wonderful change had been wrought in me, and, youngster though I was, I was amazed to think what might be the possibilities of the mind.
For some time after this incident I tried to avoid Doctor Khayme, but as he had charge of our rhetoric and French, as well as oratory, it was impossible that we should not meet. In class he was reserved and confined himself strictly to his duties, never by tone or look varying his prescribed relation to the class; yet, though his outward gravity and seeming indifference, I sometimes felt that he influenced me by a power which no other man exerted over me.
One afternoon, returning from school to my quarters, I had just crossed Meeting Street when I felt a light hand on my shoulder, and, turning, I saw Doctor Khayme.
"Allow me to walk with you?" he asked.
He did not wait for an answer, but continued at once: "I have from your father a letter in relation to your health. He says that he is uneasy about you."
"I was never better in my life, sir," said I; "he has no reason to be worried."
"I shall be glad to be able to relieve his mind," said the Doctor.
Now, I had wit enough to observe that the Doctor had not said "I am glad," but "I shall be glad," and I asked, "Do you think I am wrong in health?"
"Not seriously," he replied; "but I think it will be well for you to see the letter, and if you will be so good as to accompany me to my lodging, I will show it to you."
Dr. Khayme's "lodging" proved to be a small cottage on one of the side streets. There was a miniature garden in front: vines clambered over the porch and were trained so that they almost hid the windows. An old woman, who seemed to be housekeeper, cook, and everything that a general servant may be, opened to his knock.
"I never carry a key," said the Doctor, seemingly in response to my thought.
I was led into a bright room in the back of the house. The windows looked on the sunset. The floor was bare, except in front of the grate, where was spread the skin of some strange animal. For the rest, there was nothing remarkable about the apartment. An old bookcase in a corner seemed packed to bursting with dusty volumes in antique covers, A writing-table, littered and piled with papers, was in the middle of the room, and there were a few easy-chairs, into one of which the Doctor motioned me.
Excusing himself a moment, he went to the mantel, took seemed fixed on me, but I felt that he was looking through me at something beyond.
Again he spoke. "I think that what you need is to exert your will. I can help you to do that. You are very receptive; you have great will-power also, but you have not cultivated that power. This is a critical time in your life. You are becoming a man. You must use your will. I can help you by making you see that you can use your will, and that the will is very powerful--that your will is very powerful. He who has confidence in his own will-power will exert it. I can help you to have confidence. But I cannot exert your will for you; you must do that. To begin with, I shall give you a very simple task. I think I can understand a little your present attitude toward me. You are in doubt. I wish you to be in doubt, for the moment. I wish your curiosity and desires for and against to be so evenly balanced that you will have no difficulty in choosing for or against. You are just in that condition. You have feared and mistrusted me; now your fear and suspicion are leaving you, and curiosity is balancing against indolence. I do not bid you to make an effort to will; I leave it entirely to you to determine now whether you will struggle against weakness or submit to it; whether you will begin to use your sleeping will-power or else continue to accept what comes."
I rose to my feet at once.
"What is your decision?" asked the Doctor smiling--the first smile I had ever seen on his face.
"I will be a man!" I exclaimed.
I became a frequent visitor at the Doctor's, and gradually learned more and more of this remarkable man. His little daughter told me much that I could never have guessed. She was a very serious child, perhaps of eleven years, and not very attractive. In fact, she was ugly, but her gravity seemed somehow to suit her so well that I could by no means dislike down a pipe with a long stem, and began to stuff the bowl with tobacco which I saw was very black; while he was doing so, I recognized on the pipe the carven image of an idol.
"Yes," he said; "I see no good in changing."
I did not say anything to this speech; I did not know what he meant.
He went to his desk, took my father's letter from a drawer, and handed it to me. I read:--
"MY DEAR SIR: Pardon the liberty I take in writing to you. My son, who is under your charge in part, causes me great uneasiness. I need not say to you that he has a mind above the average--you will have already discovered this; but I wish to say that his mind has passed through strange experiences and that possibly he must--though God forbid--go through more of such. A friend of mine has convinced me that you can help my boy.
Yours very truly, "JONES BERWICK, SR."
When I had read this letter, it came upon me that it was strange, especially in its abrupt ending. I looked at the Doctor and offered the letter to him.
"No," said he; "keep it; put it in your pocket."
I did as he said, and waited. For a short time Dr. Khayme sat with the amber mouthpiece of his pipe between his lips; his eyes were turned from me.
He rose, and put his pipe back on the mantel; then turning toward me, and yet standing, he looked upon me gravely, and said very slowly, "I do not think it advisable to ask you to tell me what the mental experiences are to which your father alludes; it may be best that you should not speak of them; it may be best that you should not think of them. I am sure that I can help you; I am sure that your telling me your history could not cause me to help you more."
I was silent. The voice of the man was grave, and low, and sweet. I could see no expression in his face. His dark eyes seemed fixed on me, but I felt that he was looking through me at something beyond.
Again he spoke. "I think that what you need is to exert your will. I can help you to do that. You are very receptive; you have great will-power also, but you have not cultivated that power. This is a critical time in your life. You are becoming a man. You must use your will. I can help you by making you see that you can use your will, and that the will is very powerful--that your will is very powerful. He who has confidence in his own will-power will exert it. I can help you to have confidence. But I cannot exert your will for you; you must do that. To begin with, I shall give you a very simple task. I think I can understand a little your present attitude toward me. You are in doubt. I wish you to be in doubt, for the moment. I wish your curiosity and desires for and against to be so evenly balanced that you will have no difficulty in choosing for or against. You are just in that condition. You have feared and mistrusted me; now your fear and suspicion are leaving you, and curiosity is balancing against indolence. I do not bid you to make an effort to will; I leave it entirely to you to determine now whether you will struggle against weakness or submit to it; whether you will begin to use your sleeping will-power or else continue to accept what comes."
I rose to my feet at once.
"What is your decision?" asked the Doctor smiling--the first smile I had ever seen on his face.
"I will be a man!" I exclaimed.
I became a frequent visitor at the Doctor's, and gradually learned more and more of this remarkable man. His little daughter told me much, that I could never have guessed. She was a very serious child, perhaps of eleven years, and not very attractive. In fact, she was ugly, but her gravity seemed somehow to suit her so well that I could by no means dislike her. Her father was very fond of her; of an evening the three of us would sit in the west room; the Doctor would smoke and read; I would read some special matter--usually on philosophy--selected by my tutor; Lydia would sit silently by, engaged in sewing or knitting, and absorbed seemingly in her own imaginings. Lydia at one time said some words which I could not exactly catch, and which made me doubt the seeming poverty of her father, but I attributed her speech to the natural pride of a child who thinks its father great in every way. I was not greatly interested, moreover, in the domestic affairs of the household, and never thought of asking for information that seemed withheld. I learned from the child's talk, at odd times when the Doctor would be absent from the room, that they were foreigners,--a fact which. I had already taken for granted,--but I was never made to know the land of their birth. It was certain that Dr. Khayme could speak German and French, and I could frequently see him reading in books printed in characters unknown to me. Several times I have happened to come unexpectedly into the presence of the father and daughter when they were conversing in a tongue which I was sure I had never heard. The Doctor had no companions. He was at home, or at school, or else on the way from the one to the other. No visitor ever showed himself when I was at the cottage. Lydia attended the convent school. I understood from remarks dropped incidentally, as well as from seeing the books she had, that her studies were the languages in the main, and I had strong evidence that, young as she was, her proficiency in French and German far exceeded my own acquirements.
By degrees I learned that the Doctor was deeply interested in what we would call speculative philosophy. I say by degrees, for the experience I am now writing down embraces the winters of five or six years. Most of the books that composed his library were abstruse treatises on metaphysics, philosophy, and religion. I believe that in his collection could have been found the Bible of every religious faith. Sometimes he would read aloud a passage in the Bhagavadgita, of which he had a manuscript copy interleaved with annotations in his own delicate handwriting.
He seldom spoke of the past, but he seemed strangely interested in the political condition of every civilized nation. The future of the human race was a subject to which he undoubtedly gave much thought. I have heard him more than once declare, with emphasis, that the outlook for the advancement of America was not auspicious. In regard to the sectional discord in the United States, he showed a strange unconcern. I knew that he believed it a matter of indifference whether secession, of which we were beginning again to hear some mutterings, was a constitutional right; but on the question of slavery his interest was intense. He believed that slavery could not endure, let secession be attempted or abandoned, let secession fail or succeed.
In my vacations I spoke to my father of the profound man who had interested himself in my mental welfare; my father approved the intimacy. He did not know Dr. Khayme personally, but he had much reason to believe him a worthy man. I had never said anything to my father about the note he had written to the Doctor; for a long time, in fact, the thought of doing so did not come to me, and when it did come I decided that, since my father had not mentioned the matter, it was not for me to do so; it was a peculiar note.
My father gave me to know that his former wish to abridge my life in the South had given way to his fears, and that I was to continue to spend my winters in Charleston. In after years I learned that Dr. Khayme had not thought my condition exempt from danger.
So had passed the winters and vacations until the fall of '57, without recurrence of my trouble. I no longer feared a lapse; my father and the physicians agreed that my migrations should cease, and I entered college. I wrote Dr. Khayme a letter, in which I expressed great regret on account of our separation, but I received no reply.
On Christmas Day of this year, 1857, I was at home. Suddenly, even without the least premonition or obvious cause, I suffered lapse of memory. The period affected embraced, with remarkable exactness, all the time that had elapsed since I had last seen Dr. Khayme.
Early in January my father accompanied me to Charleston. He was induced to take me there because I was conscious of nothing that had happened since the last day I spent there, and he was, moreover, very anxious to meet Dr. Khayme. We learned, on our arrival in Charleston, however, that the Doctor and his daughter had sailed for Liverpool early in September. My father and I travelled in the South until November, 1858, when my memory was completely restored. He then returned to Massachusetts, leaving me in Carolina, and I did not return to the North until August, 1860.
The military enthusiasm of the North, aroused by the firing on Sumter, was contagious; but for a time my father opposed my desire to enter the army. Beyond the fears which every parent has, he doubted the effect of military life upon my mental nature. Our family physician, however, was upon my side, and contended, with what good reason I did not know, that the active life of war would be a benefit rather than a harm to me; so my father ceased to oppose, and I enlisted.
In the afternoon we broke camp and marched toward the west. It was July 16, 1861.
The bands were playing "Carry me back to old Virginia."
I was in the Eleventh. Orders had been read, but little could be understood by men in the ranks. Nothing was clear to me, in these orders, except two things:--
First, to be surprised would be unpardonable.
Second, to fall back would be unpardonable.
It was four o'clock. The road was ankle-deep in dust; the sun burnt our faces as we marched toward the west. Up hill and down hill, up hill and down hill, we marched for an hour, west and southwest.
We halted; from each company men were detailed to fill canteens. The city could no longer he seen.
Willis pointed to the north. Willis was a big, red-haired sergeant--a favourite with the men.
I looked, and saw clouds of dust rising a mile or two away.
"Miles's division," says Willis.
"What is on our left?"
"Nothing," says Willis.
"How do you know?"
"We are the left," says Willis.
The sergeant had studied war a little; he had some infallible views.
The sergeant-major, with his diamond stripes, and his short sword saluting, spoke to a captain, who at once reported to the colonel at the head of the regiment. The captain returned to his post:--
"Comp-a-ny--B ... ATTENTION!" ...
"Shudda ... HOP!" ...
"LOAD!" ...
"Shudda ... HOP!" ...
"R-i-i-i-i-ght ... FACE!" ...
"Fah--w-u-u-u-d ... MOTCH!" ...
"Fi--lef ... MOTCH!"
Company B disappeared in the bushes on our left.
The water-detail returned; the regiment moved forward.
Passing over a rising ground, Willis pointed to the left. I could see some black spots in a stubble-field.
"Company B; skirmishers," says Willis.
"Any rebels out that way?"
"Don't know. Right to be ready for 'em," says Willis.
Marching orders had been welcomed by the men, and the first few miles had been marked by jollity; the jest repeated growing from four to four; great shouts had risen, at seeing the dust made by our columns advancing on parallel roads. The air was stagnant, the sun directly in our faces. This little peaked infantry cap is a damnable outrage. The straps across my shoulders seemed to cut my flesh. Great drops rolled down my face. My canteen was soon dry. The men were no longer erect as on dress parade. Each one bent over--head down. The officers had no heavy muskets--no heavy cartridge-boxes; they marched erect; the second lieutenant was using his sword for a walking-cane. "Close up!" shouted the sergeants. My heels were sore. The dust was stifling.
Another halt; a new detail for water.
The march continued--a stumbling, staggering march, in the darkness. A hundred yards and a halt of a minute; a quarter of a mile and a halt of half an hour; an exasperating march. At two o'clock in the morning we were permitted to break ranks. I was too tired to sleep. Where we were I knew not, and I know not--somewhere in Fairfax County, Virginia. Willis, who was near me, lying on his blanket, his cartridge-box for a pillow, said that we were the left of McDowell's army; that the centre and right extended for miles; that the general headquarters ought to be at Fairfax Court-House at this moment, and that if Beauregard didn't look sharp he would wake up some fine morning and find old Heintz in his rear.
Before the light we were aroused by the reveillé.
The moving and halting process was resumed, and was kept up for many hours. We reached the railroad. Our company was sent forward to relieve the pickets. We were in the woods, and within a hundred yards of a feeble rivulet which, ran from west to east almost parallel with our skirmish-line; nothing could be seen in front but trees. Beyond the stream vedettes were posted on a ridge. The men of the company were in position, but at ease. The division was half a mile in our rear.
I was lying on my back at the root of a scrub-oak very like the blackjacks of Georgia and the Carolinas. The tree caused me to think of my many sojourns in the South. Willis was standing a few yards away; he was in the act of lighting his pipe.
"What's that?" said he, dropping the match.
"What's what?" I asked.
"There! Don't you hear it? two--three--"
At the word "three" I heard distinctly, in the far northwest, a low rumble. All the men were on their feet, silent, serious. Again the distant cannon was heard.
About five o'clock in the afternoon the newspapers from Washington were in our hands. In one of the papers a certain war correspondent had outlined, or rather amplified, the plan of the campaign. Basing his prediction, doubtless, upon the fact that he knew something of the nature of the advance begun on the 16th, the public was informed that Heintzelman's division would swing far to the left until the rear of Beauregard's right flank was reached; at the same time Miles and Hunter would seize Fairfax Court-House, and threaten the enemy's centre and left, and would seriously attack when Heintzelman should give the signal. Thus, rolled up from the right, and engaged everywhere else, the enemy's defeat was inevitable.
The papers were handed from one to another. Willis chuckled a little when he saw his own view seconded, although, he was beginning to be afraid that his plans were endangered.
"I told you that headquarters last night would be Fairfax Court-House," said he; "but the firing we heard awhile ago means that our troops have been delayed. Beauregard is awake."
Just at sunset I was sent forward to relieve a vedette. This was my first experience of the kind. A sergeant accompanied me. We readied a spot from which, through the trees, the sentinel could be seen. He was facing us, instead of his front. The poor fellow--Johnson, of our company--had, been on post for two mortal hours, and was more concerned about the relief in his rear than about the enemy that might not be in his front. The sergeant halted within a few paces of the vedette, while I received instructions. I was to ascertain from the sentinel any peculiarity of his post and the general condition, existing in his front, and then, dismiss him to the care of the sergeant. Johnson, could tell me nothing. He had seen nothing; had heard nothing. He retired and I was alone.
The ground was somewhat elevated, but not sufficiently so to enable one to see far in front. The vedette on either flank was invisible. Night was falling. A few faint stars began to shine. A thousand insects were cheeping; a thousand frogs in disjointed concert welcomed the twilight. A gentle breeze swayed the branches of the tree above me. Far away--to right or left, I know not--a cow-bell tinkled. More stars came out. The wind died away.
I leaned against the tree, and peered into the darkness.
I wanted to be a good soldier. This day I had heard for the first time the sound of hostile arms. I thought it would be but natural to be nervous, and I found myself surprised when I decided that I was not nervous. The cry of the lone screech-owl below me in the swamp sounded but familiar and appropriate.
That we were to attack the enemy I well knew; a battle was certain unless the enemy should retreat. My thoughts were full of wars and battles. My present duty made me think, of Indians. I wondered whether the rebels were well armed; I knew them; I knew they would fight; I had lived among those misguided people.
"Fall in, men! Fall in Company D!"
It was after two o'clock on the morning of July 21.
We had scarcely slept. For two or three days we had been in a constant state of nervous expectancy. On the 18th the armed reconnaissance on Bull Run had brought more than our generals had counted on; we had heard the combat, but had taken no part in it. Now the attack by the left had been abandoned.
The early part of the night of the 20th had been spent in trying to get rations; at twelve o'clock we had two days' cooked rations in our haversacks.
At about three o'clock the regiment turned south, into the road for Centreville.
Willis said that we were to flank Beauregard's left; but nobody took the trouble to assent or deny.
At Centreville there was a long and irksome halt; some lay down--in the road--by the side of the road; some kept their feet and moved about impatiently.
An army seemed to be passing in the road before our column, and we must wait till the way was clear.
Little noise was made by the column marching on the road intersecting ours. There was light laughter occasionally, but in general the men were silent, going forward with rapid strides, or standing stock still when brought to an abrupt halt whenever the head of the column struck an obstacle.
I slept by snatches, awaking every time in a jump. Everybody was nervous; even the officers could not hide their irritation.
Six o'clock came. The road was clear; the sun was nearly two hours high.
Forward we went at a swinging gait down the road through the dust. In ten minutes the sweat was rolling. No halt--no pause--no command, except the everlasting "Close up! close up!"
Seven o'clock ... we turn to the right--northwest--a neighbourhood road; ... fields; ... thickets; ... hills--not so much dust now, but the sun getting hotter and hotter, and hotter and hotter getting our thirst.
And Sunday morning ... Close up! close up!
Hear it? Along the southeast the horizon smokes and booms. Hear it? The cannon roar in the valley below us.
Eight o'clock ... seven miles; nine o'clock ... ten miles; ... a ford--we cross at double-quick; ... a bridge--we cross at double-quick; the sound of cannon and small arms is close in our front.
What is that confusion up on the hill? Smoke and dust and fire.
See them? Four men with another--and that other, how the red blood streams from his head!
What are they doing up on the hill? They are dying up on the hill. Why should they die?
Ah, me! ah, me!
The Eleventh is formed at the foot of the hill; the commander rides to its front:
"Colour--bearer--twelve--paces--to the front--MARCH! Bat-tal-ion--pre-sent--ARMS!"
Then, with drawn sword, the colonel also salutes the flag--and cries, DIES BY IT!
A mortal cold goes to the marrow of my bones; my comrades' faces are white as death.
"Bat-tal-ion--fix--BAYONETS!
"For-ward--guide centre--MARCH!"
Slowly we move up the hill; the line sways in curves; we halt and re-form.
We lie down near the crest; shells burst over us; shells fly with, a dreadful hissing beyond us. I raise my head; right-oblique is a battery; ... it is hidden in smoke; again I see the guns and the horses and the men; they load and fire, load and fire.
A round shot strikes the ground in our front ... rises ... falls ... rises--goes over. We fire at the smoke.
Down flat on your face! Do you hear the singing in the air? Thop! Johnson is hit; he runs to the rear, bending over until his height is lost.
And now a roar like that of a waterfall; I look again ... the battery has disappeared ... but the smoke rises and I see a long line of men come out of the far-off woods and burst upon the guns. The men of the battery flee, and the rebels swarm among the captured pieces.
Now there are no more hissing shells or bullets singing. We rise and look,--to our right a regiment is marching forward ... no music, no drum ... marching forward, flag in the centre ... colonel behind the centre, dismounted,--the men march on; quick time, right-shoulder-shift; the fleeing cannoneers find safety behind the regiment always marching on. The rebels at the battery are not in line; some try to drag away the guns; swords flash in the hot sun; ... the rebels re-form; ... they lie down; ... and now the regiment is at double-quick with trailed arms; ... the rebel line rises and delivers its fire.
The smoke swallows everything.
Again I see. The rebel line has melted away. Our own men hold the battery. They try to turn the guns once more on the fleeing rebels; and now a rebel battery far to the left works fast upon the regiment in disorder. A fresh rebel line comes from the woods and rushes for the battery with the sound of many voices. Our men give way ... they run--the officers are frantic; all run, all run ... and the cavalry ride from, the woods, and ride straight through our flying men and strike ... and many of the fugitives fire upon the horsemen, who in turn flee for their lives.
It is long past noon; the sun is a huge red shield; the world is smoke. Another regiment has gone in; the roar of battle grows; crowds of wounded go by; a battery gallops headlong to the rear ... the men madly lash the horses.
"Bat-tal-ion--ATTENTION!"
Our time is upon us; the Eleventh, stands and forms.
"For-ward--MARCH!"
The dust is so dense that I can see nothing in the front, ... but we are moving. Smith drops; Lewis falls to the rear; the ranks are thinning; elbows touch no longer ... our pace quickens ... a horrid impatience seizes me ... through the smoke I see the cannons ... faster, faster ... I see the rebel line--a tempest breaks in my face--"Surrender, you damned Yankee!"
I am running for life--a mass of fugitives around me--disorderly mob ... I look behind--nothing but smoke ... I begin to walk.
The army was lost; it was no longer an army. As soon as the men had run beyond gunshot they began to march, very deliberately, each one for himself, away from the field. Companies, regiments, and brigades were intermingled. If the rebels had been in condition to pursue us, many thousands of our men would have fallen into their hands.
In vain I tried to find some group of Company D. Suddenly I felt exhausted--sick from hunger and fatigue--and was compelled to stop and rest. The line of the enemy did not seem to advance, and firing in our rear had ceased.
A man of our company passed me--Edmonds. I called to him, "Where is the company?"
"All gone," said he; "and you'd better get out of that, too, as quick as you can."
"Tell me who is hurt," said I.
But he was gone, and I felt that it would not do for me to remain where I was. I remembered Dr. Khayme's encouraging words as to my will, and by great effort resolved to rise and run.
At length, as I was going down the slope toward the creek, I heard my name called. I looked round, and saw a man waving his hand, and heard him call me again. I went toward him. It was Willis; he was limping; his hat was gone; everything was gone; in fact, he was hardly able to march.
"Where are you hit?" I asked.
"The knee," he replied.
"Bad?"
"I don't think it is serious; it seems to me that it don't pain me as it did awhile ago."
"Can you hold out till we find an ambulance?" I asked.
"Well, that depends; I guess all the ambulances are needed for men worse off than I am."
Just then an officer rode along, endeavouring to effect some order, but the men gave no attention to him at all. They had taken it into their heads to go. By this time the routed troops before us were packed between the high banks of the roadway which went down toward the creek. I was desperately hungry, having eaten nothing since five o'clock in the morning.
"Let's stay here and eat something," said I to Willis, "and let the crowd scatter before we go on."
"No, not yet," said he; "we need water first. I couldn't swallow a mouthful without water. Whiskey wouldn't hurt either. Got any water in your canteen?"
"Not a drop," said I.
Although Willis was limping badly, the slow progress of the troops at this point allowed him to keep up. At the bottom of the hill, where the road strikes the low ground, the troops had greater space; some of them followed their leaders straight ahead on the road; others went to the right and left, seeking to avoid the crowd.
"Let's go up the creek," said Willis.
"What for?"
"To get water; I'm dying of thirst."
"Do you think you can stand it awhile longer?"
"Yes; at any rate, I'll keep a-goin' as long as God lets me, and I can stand it better if I can get water and something to eat."
"Well, then, come on, and I'll help you as long as I can."
He leaned on me, hobbling along as best he could, and bravely too, although, at every step he groaned with pain.
I had become somewhat attached to Willis. He was egotistic--just a little--but harmlessly so, and his senses were sound and his will was good; I had, too, abundant evidence of his liking for me. He was a strapping fellow, more than six feet tall and as strong as a bullock. So, while I fully understood the danger in tying myself to a wounded comrade, I could not find it in my heart to desert him, especially since he showed such determination to save himself. Besides, I knew that he was quick-witted and country-bred; and I had great hope that he would prove more of a help than a hindrance.
We followed a few stragglers who had passed us and were now running up the creek seeking a crossing. The stream was shallow, but the banks were high, and in most places steep. Men were crossing at almost all points. Slowly following the hurrying groups of twos and threes who had outstripped us, we found at length, a place that seemed fordable for Willis. It was where a small branch emptied into the creek; and by getting into the branch, above its mouth, and following its course, we should be able to cross the creek.
"Lord! I am thirsty," said Willis; "but look how they have muddied the branch; it's as bad as the creek."
"That water wouldn't do us any good," I replied.
"No," said he; "it would make us sick."
"But what else can we do?"
"Let's go up the branch, a little," said he.
All sounds in our rear had long since died away. The sun was yet shining, but in the thick forest it was cool and almost dark. I hoped that water, food, and a little rest would do us more good than harm--that time would be saved, in effect.
A hundred yards above the mouth of the branch, we found the water clear. I still had my canteen, my haversack with a cup in it, and food. Willis lay on the ground near the stream, while I filled my canteen; I handed it to him, and then knelt in the wet sand and drank.
The spot might have been well chosen for secrecy; indeed, we might have remained there for days were it not for fear. A giant poplar had been uprooted by some storm and had crushed in its fall an opening in, the undergrowth. The trunk spanned the little brook, and the boughs, intermingling with the copse, made a complete hiding-place.
I helped Willis to cross the branch; then we lay with the log at our backs and completely screened from view.
Willis drank another great draught of water. I filled the canteen again, and examined his wound. His knee was stiff and much swollen; just under the knee-cap was a mass of clotted blood; this I washed away, using all the gentle care at my command, but giving him, nevertheless, great pain. A small round hole was now scan, and by gently pressing on its walls, I thought I detected the presence of the ball.
"Sergeant," said I, "it's in there; I don't believe it's more than half an inch, deep."
"Then pull it out," said Willis,
That was more easily said than done. Willis was lying flat on his back, eating ravenously. From moment to moment I stuffed my mouth with hardtack and pork.
I sharpened a reed and introduced its point into the wound; an obstacle was met at once--but how to get it out? The hole was so small that I conjectured the wound had been made by a buck-shot, the rebels using, as we ourselves, many smooth-bore muskets, loaded with buck-and-ball cartridges.
"Willis," said I, "I think I'd better not undertake this job; suppose I get the ball out, who knows that that will be better for you? Maybe you'd lose too much blood."
"I want it out," said Willis.
"But suppose I can't got it out; we might lose an hour and do no good. Besides, I must insist that I don't like it. I think my business is to let your leg alone; I'm no surgeon."
"Take your knife," said Willis, "and cut the hole bigger."
The wound was bleeding afresh, but I did not tell him so.
"No," said I; "your leg is too valuable for me to risk anything of that kind."
"You refuse?"
"I positively refuse," said I.
We had eaten enough. The sun was almost down. Far away a low rumbling was heard, a noise like the rolling of cars or of a wagon train.
Willis reluctantly consented to start. I went to the brook and kneaded some clay into the consistency of plaster; I took off my shirt, and tore it into strips. Against the naked limb, stiffened out, I applied a handful of wet clay and smoothed it over; then I wrapped the cloths around the knee, at every fold smearing the bandage with clay. I hardly knew why I did this, unless with the purpose of keeping the knee-joint from bending; when the clay should become dry and hard the joint would be incased in a stiff setting which I hoped would serve for splints. Willis approved the treatment, saying that clay was good for sprains, and might be good for wounds.
I helped the sergeant to his feet. He could stand, but could hardly move.
"Take my gun," said I, "and use it as a crutch."
He did as I said, but the barrel of the gun sank into the soft earth; after two strides he said, "Here! I can get along better without it." Meanwhile I had been sustaining part of his weight.
I saw now that I must abandon my gun--a smooth-bore, on the stock of which, with a soldier's vanity, I had carved the letters J. B. I broke the stock with one blow of the barrel against the poplar log.
I was now free to help Willis. Slowly and painfully we made our way through the bottom. The cool water of the creek rose above our knees and seemed to cheer the wounded man. The ascent of the further bank was achieved, but with great difficulty.
BULL RUN, July 2l,1881.
We rested a little while. Here, in the swamp, night was falling. We saw no one, neither pursuers nor pursued. At length, after much and painful toil, we got through the wood. The last light of day showed us a small field in front. Willis leaned against a tree, his blanched face showing his agony. I let down a gap in the fence.
It was clearly to be seen that the sergeant could do no more, and I decided to settle matters without consulting him. In the field I had seen some straw stacks. We succeeded in reaching them. At the bottom of the smallest, I hollowed out a sort of cave. The work took but a minute. Willis was looking on dully; he was on the bare ground, utterly done for with pain and weariness. At length, he asked, "What's that for?"
"For you," I replied.
He said no more; evidently he appreciated the situation and at the same time was too far gone to protest. I made him a bed and pulled the overhanging straw thinly around him, so as effectually to conceal him from any chance passer-by; I took off my canteen and haversack and placed them within his reach. Then, with a lump in my throat, I bade him good-by.
"Jones," said he, "God bless you."
"Sergeant," I said, "go to sleep if you can. I shall try to return and get you; I am going to find help; if I can possibly get help, I will come back for you to-night; but if by noon to-morrow you do not see me, you must act for the best. It may become necessary for you to show yourself and surrender, in order to get your wound properly treated; all this country will be ransacked by the rebel cavalry before to-morrow night."
"Yes, I know that," said Willis; "I will do the best I can. God bless you, Jones."
Alone and lightened, I made my way in the darkness to the road which we had left when we began to seek the ford. I struck the road a mile or more to the north of Bull Run. There was no moon; thick clouds gave warning of rain. I knew that to follow this road--the same circuitous road by which we had advanced in the morning--was not to take the nearest way to Centreville. I wanted to find the Warrenton turnpike, but all I knew was that it was somewhere to my right. I determined to make my way as rapidly as I could in that direction through the fields and thickets.
For an hour or more I had blundered on through brush and brake, when suddenly I seemed to hear the noise of a moving wagon. I went cautiously in the direction of the sound, which soon ceased.
By dint of straining my eyes I could see an oblong form outlined against the sky.
I went toward it; I could hear horses stamping and harness rattling; still, I could see no one. The rear of the wagon, if it was a wagon, was toward me.
I reasoned: "This cannot be a rebel ambulance; there would be no need for it here; it must be one of ours, or else it is a private carriage; it certainly is not an army wagon."
I advanced a little nearer, I had made up my mind to halloo, and had opened my lips, when a voice came from the ambulance--a voice which I had heard before, and which, stupefied me with astonishment.
"Is that you, Jones?"
I stood fixed. I seemed to recognize the voice, but surely my supposition must be impossible.
A man got out of the ambulance, and approached; he had a pipe in his mouth; he was a small man, not more than five feet tall. I felt as though in the presence of a miracle.
"I have been seeking you," he said.
For a time I was dumb. I knew not what to say or ask or think. The happenings of this terrible day, which had wrought the defeat of the Union army, had been too much for me. Vanquished, exhausted, despairing, heart-sore from enforced desertion of my wounded friend, still far from safety myself, with no physical desire remaining except the wish to lie down and be at rest forever, and with no moral feeling in my consciousness except that of shame,--which will forever rise uppermost in me when I think of that ignominious day,--to be suddenly accosted by the man whom I held in the most peculiar veneration and who, I had believed, was never again to enter into my life--accosted by him on the verge of the lost battlefield--in the midst of darkness and the débris of the rout, while groping, as it were, on my lone way to security scarcely hoped for--it was too much; I sank down on the road.
How long I lay there I have never known--probably but few moments.
The Doctor took my hand in his. "Be consoled, my friend," said he; "you are in safety; this is my ambulance; we will take you with us."
Then, he called to some one in the ambulance, "Reed, bring me the flask of brandy."
When I had revived, the Doctor urged me to climb in before him.
"No," I cried, "I cannot do it; I cannot leave Willis; we must get Willis."
"I heard that Willis was shot," said he; "but I had supposed, from the direction you two wore taking when last seen, that he had reached the field hospital. Where is Willis now?"
I told him as accurately as I could, and in half an hour we were in the stubble-field. For fear the sergeant should be unnecessarily alarmed on hearing persons approach, I called him softly by name; then, hearing no answering call, I raised my voice--"Willis! It is Jones, with help!" But there was no response.
We found the sergeant fast asleep. It was more difficult to get him awake than to get him into the ambulance. Reed and I picked him up bodily and laid him down on a mattress in the bottom of the vehicle.
And now, with my load of personal duty gone, I also sank back and slumbered through a troubled night, and when I fully awoke it was six in the morning and we were crossing Long Bridge in the midst of a driving rain. There were two seats in the ambulance, besides a double-deck, that is to say, two floors for wounded to lie upon. I scrambled to the rear seat.
We were making but slow progress. The bridge ahead of us was crowded. There were frequent stoppages. Many civilians, on horseback or in carriages, were before and behind us. Soldiers single and in groups swelled the procession, some of them with their arms in slings; how they had achieved the long night march I cannot yet comprehend.
Willis was yet lying on the mattress; his eyes were not open, but he was awake, I thought, for his motions were restless.
Reed appeared to be exhausted; he said nothing and nodded sleepily, although holding the lines. The Doctor, on the contrary, looked fresh and vigorous; indeed, as I closely studied his face, I could almost have believed that he had become younger than he had been when I parted with him in Charleston, more than three years before. He knew that I was observing him, for he said, without turning his face toward me, "You have not slept well, Jones; but you did not know when we stopped at Fairfax; we rested the horses there for an hour."
"Yes," I said, "I feel stupid, and my spirits are wofully down."
"Why so?" he asked, with a smile.
"Oh, the bitter disappointment!" I cried; "what will become of the country?"
"What do you mean by the country?" asked the Doctor.
I did not reply at once.
"Do you mean," he repeated, "the material soil? Do you mean the people of the United States, including those of the seceded States? Do you mean the idea symbolized by everything that constitutes American civilization? However, let us not speak of these difficult matters now. We must get your friend Willis to the hospital and then arrange for your comfort."
"I thank you, Doctor; but first be so good as to relieve my devouring curiosity: tell me by what marvellous chance you were on the battlefield."
"No chance at all, Jones; you know that I have always told you there is no such thing as chance, I went to the field deliberately, as an agent of the United States Sanitary Commission."
"I thought that you were far from this country, and that you felt no interest in us," said I. "My father and I were in Charleston in 'fifty-eight,' and were told that you were in Europe. And then, too, how could you know that I was on such a part of the battlefield, and that Willie was hurt and that I was with him?"
"All that is very simple," said he; "as to being in Europe, and afterward getting to America, that is not more strange than being in America and afterward getting to Europe; however, lot us defer all talk of Europe and America. As to knowing that you were with Sergeant Willis, and that he was wounded, that is simple; some men of your regiment gave me that information."
I did not reply to the Doctor, but sat looking at the miscellaneous file of persons, carriages, ambulances, and all else that was now blocked on the bridge,
At length I said: "I cannot understand how you could so easily find the place where I left Sergeant Willis. It was more than a mile from the spot where I met you; the night was dark, and I am certain that I could not have found the place."
"Of course you could not," he replied; "but it was comparatively easy for me; I had passed and repassed the place, for I worked all day to help the disabled--- and Reed was employed for the reason that he knows every nook and corner of that part of the country."
After crossing the bridge, Reed drove quickly to the Columbia College Hospital, where we left Sergeant Willis, but not before learning that his wound was not difficult.
"Now," said the Doctor, "you are my guest for a few days. I will see to it that you are excused from duty for a week. It may take that time to set you right, especially as I can see that you have some traces of nervous fever. I am going to take steps to prevent your becoming ill."
"How can you explain my absence, Doctor?"
"Well," said he, "in the first place there is as yet nobody authorized to receive an explanation. To-day our time is our own; by to-morrow all the routed troops will be in or near Washington; then I shall simply write a note, if you insist upon it, to the commanding officer of your company, explaining Willis's absence and your connection with his case, and take on myself the responsibility for your return to your command."
"Has the Sanitary Commission such credit that your note will be accepted as a guaranty, in good form, for my return?"
"The circumstances in this case are peculiar," said the Doctor; "some of your men will not report to their commands for a week. You will be ready for your company before your company is ready for you."
"That is true enough, Doctor; but I should wish to observe all military requirement."
He left me for a while and returned with a piece of paper in his hand.
"Well, what do you think of this?"
It was a surgeon's commitment of Private Jones Berwick, company and regiment given, into the hands of the Sanitary Commission for ten days. I could say no more, except to speak my gratitude for his kindness.
"I am sorry," said Dr. Khayme, "to be unable to offer you the best of quarters. The Commission has so recently been organized that we have not yet succeeded in getting thorough order into our affairs; in fact, my work yesterday was rather the work of a volunteer than the work of the Commission. Our tents are now beyond Georgetown Heights; in a few days we shall move our camps, and shall increase our comfort."
The ambulance was driven through some of the principal streets. The sidewalks and carriageways were crowded; civilians and soldiers; wagons, guns, caissons, ambulances; companies, spick-and-span, which, had not yet seen service; ones, twos, threes, squads of men who had escaped from the disaster of the 21st, unarmed, many of them, without knapsacks, haggard.
At the corners of the streets were rude improvised tables behind which stood men and women serving food and drink to the famished fugitives. The rain fell steadily, a thick drizzle. Civilians looked their anxiety. A general officer rode by, surrounded by the remnant of his staff, heads bent down, gloomy. Women wept while serving the hungry. The unfinished dome of the Capitol, hardly seen through the rain, loomed ominous. Depression over all: ambulances full of wounded men, tossing and groaning; fagged-out horses, vehicles splashed with mud; policemen dazed, idle; newsboys crying their merchandise; readers eagerly reading--not to know the result to the army, but the fate of some loved one; stores closed; whispers; doom.
I turned to Dr. Khayme; he smiled. Then he made Reed halt; he got out of the ambulance and went to one of the tables. A woman gave him coffee, which he brought to me, and made me drink. He returned to the table and gave back the cup. The woman looked toward the ambulance. She was a tall young woman, serious, dignified. She impressed me.
We drove past Georgetown Heights. There, amongst the trees, were four wall-tents in a row; one of them was of double length. The ambulance stopped; we got out. The Doctor led the way into one of the tents; he pointed to one of two camp-beds. "That is yours," said he; "go to sleep; you shall not be disturbed."
"I don't think I can sleep, Doctor."
"Why not?"
"My mind will not let me."
"Well, try," said he; "I will peep in shortly and see how you are getting on."
I undressed, and bathed my face. Then I lay down on the bed, pulling a sheet over me. I turned my face to the wall.
I shut my eyes, but not my vision. I saw Ricketts's battery--the First Michigan charge;--the Black-Horse cavalry ride from the woods. I saw the rebel cannons through dust and smoke;--a poplar log in a thicket;--a purple wound--wet clay;--a broken rifle;--stacks of straw.
Oh, the gloom and the shame! What does the future hold for me? for the cause? What is to defend Washington?
Then I thought of my father; I had not written to him; he would be anxious. My eyes opened; I turned to rise; Dr. Khayme entered; I rose.
"You do not sleep readily?" he asked.
"I cannot sleep at all," I said; "besides I have been so overwhelmed by this great calamity that I had not thought of telegraphing to my father. Can you get a messenger here?"
"Oh, my boy, I have already provided for your father's knowing that you are safe."
"You?"
"Yes, certainly. He knows already that you are unhurt; go to sleep; by the time you awake I promise you a telegram from your father."
"Doctor, you are an angel; but I don't believe that I can sleep."
"Let me feel your pulse."
Dr. Khayme placed his fingers on my wrist; I was sitting on the side of the bed.
"Lie down," said he. Then, still with his fingers on my pulse, he said softly, "Poor boy! you have endured too much; no wonder that you are wrought up."
He laid his other hand on my head; his fingers strayed through my hair.
When I awoke in Dr. Khayme's tent toward four o'clock of the afternoon of July 22, I felt that my mind was clear; I had slept dreamlessly.
On the cover of my bed an envelope was lying--a telegram. I hastily tore it open, and read: "Dr. Khayme tells me you are safe. Continue to do your duty." My heart swelled,
I rose, and dressed, and went out. The Doctor was standing under a tree, near a fire; a negro was cooking at the fire. Under an awning, or fly, beneath which a small eating table was dressed, a woman was sitting in a chair, reading. I thought I had seen her before, and looking more closely I recognized the woman who had given the Doctor a cup of coffee on Pennsylvania Avenue.
The Doctor stepped forward to meet me, "Ah, I see you have rested well," said he; then, "Lydia, here is Mr. Berwick."
I was becoming accustomed to surprises from the Doctor, so that I was not greatly astonished, although I had received no intimation of the young lady's identity. The feeling that was uppermost was shame that I had not even, once thought of asking the Doctor about her.
"I should, never have recognized you," I said. She replied with, a smile, and the Doctor relieved the situation by cheerfully crying out "Dinner!" and leading the way to the table.
"Now, Jones," said the Doctor, "you are expected to eat; you have had nothing since yesterday afternoon, when you choked yourself while bandaging--"
"What do you know about that?" I asked.
"You talked about it in your sleep last night on the road. As for Lydia and me, we have had our breakfast and our luncheon, and you must not expect us to eat like a starving fantassin. Fall to, my boy. I know that you have eaten nothing to-day."
There were fruit, bread and butter, lettuce, rice, and coffee. I did not wonder at the absence of meat; I remembered some of the talks of my friend. The Doctor and his daughter seemed to eat merely for the purpose of keeping me in countenance.
"Lydia, would you have known Mr. Berwick?"
"Why, of course, Father; I should have known him anywhere; it is not four years since we saw him."
These four years had made a great change in Miss Khayme. I had left her a girl in the awkward period of a girl's life; now she was a woman of fine presence, wholesome, good to look at. She did not resemble her father, except perhaps in a certain intellectual cast of feature. Her dark wavy tresses were in contrast with his straight black hair; her eyes were not his; her stature was greater than his. Yet there were points of resemblance. Her manner was certainly very like the Doctor's, and many times a fleeting expression was identical with, the Doctor's habitually perfect repose.
She must have been clad very simply; at any rate, I cannot remember anything of her dress. I only know that it was unpretentious and charming.
Her eyes were of that shade of gray which is supposed to indicate great intelligence; her complexion was between dark and fair, and betokened health. Her face was oval; her mouth a little large perhaps. She had an air of seriousness--her only striking peculiarity. One might have charged her with masculinity, but in this respect only: she was far above the average woman in dignity of manner and in consciousness of attainment. She could talk seriously of men and things.
I was wishing to say something pleasant to Miss Lydia, but could only manage to tell her that she had changed wonderfully and that she had a great advantage over me in that I was the same ungainly boy she had known in Charleston.
She did not reply to this, covering her silence by making me my third cup of coffee.
"Lydia," said the Doctor, "you must tell Mr. Berwick something about our life in the East. You know how I dislike to speak three sentences."
"With great pleasure, Father; Mr. Berwick will find that I can speak four."
"Not now, my dear. I warn you, Jones, that I shall watch over you very carefully while you are with us. I am responsible to the hospital surgeon for your health, and I cannot be a party to your extinction."
"How many sentences did you speak then, Father?"
"It depends on how you punctuate," he replied.
"Mr. Berwick," said Lydia, "Father pretends that he is not talkative, but don't you believe him. He can easily talk you to sleep."
The Doctor was almost gay, that is, for the Doctor. His eyes shone. He did not cease to look at me, except when he looked at Lydia. For the time, Lydia had a severer countenance than her father's. I ate. I thanked my stars for the conversation that was covering my ignoble performance.
"Doctor," I asked, pausing for breath, "is there any news of Willis?"
"Willis is doing well enough. The ball has been extracted; it was only a buck-shot, as you rightly surmised."
"How do you know what I surmised, Doctor?"
"Willis told the surgeon of your supposition, giving you full credit for the origin of it. By the way, that was a famous bandage you gave him."
"Was it the correct practice?"
"Well, I can hardly go as far as to say it was scientific, but under the circumstances we must pardon you."
"How long will the sergeant be down?"
"From three to six weeks, I think, according to the weather and his state of mind."
"What's the matter with his mind?"
"Impatience," said the Doctor; "the evil of the whole Western world."
I had finished eating. The Doctor got his pipe: the idol's head was the same old idol's head. Lydia disappeared into one of the tents.
"Jones," said Dr. Khayme, "I have been thinking that yesterday will prove to be the crisis of the war."
"You alarm me more than ever; do you mean to say that the South will win?"
"My words do not imply that belief; but what does it matter which side shall win?"
"Doctor, you are a strange man!"
"I have been told so very frequently; but that is not to the point. I ask what difference it would make whether the North or South should succeed."
"Then why go to war? Why not let the South, secede peaceably? What are we doing here?"
"Indeed, Jones, you may well ask such questions. War is always wrong; going to war is necessarily a phase of a shortsighted policy; every wrong act is, of course, an unwise act."
"Even when war is forced upon us?"
"War cannot be forced upon you; it takes two nations to make war; if one refuses, the other cannot make war."
"I have known, for a long time, Doctor, that you are opposed to war on the whole; but what was left for the North to do? Acknowledge the right of secession? Submit to insult? Submit to the loss of all Federal property in the Southern States? Tamely endure without resentment the attack on Sumter?"
"Yes, endure everything rather than commit a worse crime than that you resist."
Here Lydia, reappeared, charming in a simple white dress without ornament. "Good-by, Father," she said; "Mr. Berwick, I must bid you good night."
"Yes, you are on duty to-night," said her father. "Jones, you must know that Lydia is a volunteer also; she attaches herself to the Commission, and insists on serving the sick and wounded. She is on duty to-night at the College Hospital. I think she will have her hands full."
"Why, you will see Willis; will you be in his ward?" I asked, looking my admiration.
"I don't know that I am in his ward," she replied, "but I can easily see him if you wish."
"Then please be so good as to tell him that I shall come to see him--to-morrow, if possible."
Lydia started off down the hill.
"She will find a buggy at our stable-camp," said Dr. Khayme; "it is but a short distance down there."
The Doctor smoked. I thought of many things. His view of war was not new, by any means; of course, in the abstract he was right: war is wrong, and that which is wrong is unwise; but how to prevent war? A nation that will not preserve itself, how can it exist? I could not doubt that secession is destruction. If the Union should now or ever see itself broken up, then farewell to American liberties; farewell to the hopes of peoples against despotism. To refuse war, to tamely allow the South to withdraw and set up a government of her own, would be but the beginning of the end; at the first grievance California, Massachusetts, any State, could and would become independent. No; war must come; the Union must be preserved; the nation was at the forks of the road; for my part, I could not hesitate; we must take one road or the other; war was forced upon us. But why reason thus, as though we still had choice? War already exists; we must make the best of it; we are down to-day, but Bull Run is not the whole of the war; one field is lost, but all is not lost.
"Doctor," I asked, "why do you say that yesterday will prove to be the crisis of the war?"
"Because," he answered, "yesterday's lesson was well taught and will be well learned; it was a rude lesson, but it will prove a wholesome one. Your government now knows the enormous work it has to do. We shall now see preparation commensurate with the greatness of the work. Three months' volunteers are already a thing of the past. This war might have been avoided; all war might be avoided; but this war has not been avoided; America will be at war for years to come."
I was silent.
"We shall have a new general, Jones; General McClellan is ordered to report immediately in person to the war department."
"Why a new general? McClellan is well enough, I suppose; but what has McDowell done to deserve this?"
"He has failed. Failure in war is unpardonable; every general that fails finds it so; McClellan may find it so."
"You are not much of a comforter, Doctor."
"The North does not need false comforters; she needs to look things squarely in the face. Mind you, I did not say that McClellan will fail. I think, however, that there will be many failures, and much injustice done to those who fail. In war injustice is easily tolerated--any injustice that will bring success; success is demanded--not justice. Wholesale murder was committed yesterday and brought failure; wholesale murder that brings success is what is demanded by this superstitious people."
"Why do you say superstitious?"
"A nation at war believes in luck; if it has not good luck, it changes; it is like the gambler who bets high when he thinks he has what he calls a run in his favor. If the cards go against him, he changes his policy, and very frequently changes just as the cards change to suit his former play. You are now changing to McClellan, simply because McDowell has had bad luck and McClellan good luck. I do not know that McClellan's good luck will continue. War and cards are alike, and they are unlike."
"How alike and unlike?"
"Games of chance, so called, lose everything like chance in the long run; they equalize 'chances' and nobody wins. War also destroys chance, and nobody wins; both sides lose, only one side loses less than the other. In games, the result of one play cannot be foretold; in war, the result of one battle cannot be foretold. In games and in war the general result can be foretold; in the one there will be a balance and in the other there will be destruction. Even the winner in war is ruined morally, just as is the gambler."
"And can you foretell the result of this war?"
"Conditionally."
"How conditionally?"
"If the North is in earnest, or becomes in earnest, and her people become determined, there is no mystery in a prediction of her nominal success; still, she will suffer for her crime. She must suffer largely, just as she is suffering to-day in a small way for the crime of yesterday."
"It is terrible to think of yesterday's useless sacrifice."
"Not useless, Jones, regarded in its relation to this war, but certainly useless in relation to civilization. Bull Bun will prove salutary for your cause, or I woefully mistake. Nations that go to war must learn from misfortune."
"But, then, does not the misfortune of yesterday justify a change in generals?"
"Not unless the misfortune was caused by your bad generalship, and that is not shown--at least, so far as McDowell is concerned. The advance should not have been made, but he was ordered to make it. We now know that Beauregard's army was reënforced by Johnston's; it was impossible not to see that it could be so reënforced, as the Confederates had the interior line. The real fault in the campaign is not McDowell's. His plan was scientific; his battle was better planned than was his antagonist's; he outgeneralled Beauregard clearly, and failed only because of a fact that is going to be impressed frequently upon the Northern mind in this war; that fact is that the Southern troops do not know when they are beaten. McDowell defeated Beauregard, so far as those two are concerned; but his army failed, and he must be sacrificed; the North ought, however, to sacrifice the army."
"What do you mean by that, Doctor?"
"I mean that war is wrong; it is always so. It is essentially unjust and narrow. You have given up your power to be just; you cannot do what you know to be just. You act under compulsion, having yielded your freedom. A losing general is sacrificed, regardless of his real merit."
"Was it so in Washington's case?"
"Washington's first efforts were successful; had he been, defeated at Boston, he would have been superseded--unless, indeed, the colonies had given up the struggle."
"And independence would have been lost?"
"No; I do not say that. The world had need of American independence."
For half an hour we sat thus talking, the Doctor doing the most of it, and giving full rein to his philosophically impersonal views of the immediate questions involved in the national struggle. He rose at last, and left me thinking of his strange personality and wondering why, holding such views, be should throw his energies into either side.
He returned presently, bringing me a letter from my father. He waited as I opened it, and when I asked leave to read it, he said for answer, as if still thinking of our conversation:--
"Jones, my boy, there is a future for you. I can imagine circumstances in which your peculiar powers of memory would accomplish more genuine good than could a thousand bayonets; good night."
Before I went to bed I had written my father a long letter. Then, I lay down, oppressed with thought.
The next morning Lydia was missing from the breakfast table. The Doctor said that she had gone to her room--which was at a friend's house in Georgetown--to rest. She had brought from Willis a request that I should come to see him.
"You are getting back to your normal condition," said the Doctor, "and if you do not object I shall drive you down."
On the way, the Doctor told me that alarm as to the safety of the capital had subsided. The army was reorganizing on the Virginia hills and was intrenching rapidly. Reënforcements were being hurried to Washington, and a new call for volunteers would at once be made. General McClellan would arrive in a few days; much was expected of his ability to create and discipline an army.
"You need be in no hurry to report to your company," said Dr. Khayme; "it is true that you are almost fit for duty, but you have practically a leave of absence for a week or more, and I am sure that rest will do you good. By the way, President Lincoln will visit the troops at Arlington to-day; if you like, I shall be glad to take you over."
I declined, saying that I must see Willis, and expressing my desire to return to my post of duty as soon as possible.
We found Willis cheerful. The Doctor asked him a few questions and then passed into the office.
Willis pressed my hand. "Old man," said he, "but for you I should be a prisoner. Count on Jake Willis whenever you need a friend, or when it is in his power to do you a service."
"Sergeant," said I, "I shall go back to duty in a day or two. What shall I say to the boys for you?"
"Tell 'em old Jake is a-comin' too. My leg feels better already. The surgeon promises to put me on my feet in a month, or six weeks at the outside. Have you learned how our company came out?"
"The papers say there were four killed," I said; "but I have not seen their names, and I hope they are only missing. There were a good many wounded. The regiment's headquarters are over the river, and I have not seen a man of the company except you. I am very anxious."
"So am I," said the sergeant; "your friend Dr. Khayme told me it will be some days before we learn the whole truth. He is a queer man, Jones; I believe he knows what I think. Was that his daughter who came in here last night?"
"Yes," I answered; "she left me your message this morning."
"Say, Jones, you remember that poplar log?"
"I don't think I can ever forget it," I replied. The next moment I thought of my bygone mental peculiarity, and wondered if I should ever again be subjected to loss of memory. I decided to speak to Dr. Khayme once more about this matter. Although he had advised me in Charleston never to speak of it or think of it, he had only last night, referred to it himself.
"I must go now, Sergeant," said I; "can I do anything for you?"
"No, I think not."
"You are able to write your own letters?"
"Oh, yes; the nurse gives me a bed-table."
"Well, good-by."
"Say, Jones, you remember them straw stacks? Good-by, Jones. I'll be with the boys again before long."
In the afternoon I returned to the little camp and found the Doctor and Lydia. The Doctor was busy--writing. I reminded Lydia of her promise to tell me something about her life in the East.
"Where shall I begin?" she asked,
"Begin at the beginning," I said; "begin at the time I left Charleston."
"I don't know," she said, "that Father had at that time any thought of going. One morning he surprised me by telling me to get ready for a long journey."
"When was that?" I asked.
"I am not certain, but I know it was one day in the vacation, and a good while after you left."
"It must have been in September, then."
"Yes, I am almost sure it was in September."
"I suppose you were very glad to go."
"Yes, I was; but Father's intention was made known to me so suddenly that I had no time to say good-by to anybody, and that grieved me."
"You wanted to say good-by to somebody?"
"The Sisters, you know--and my schoolmates."
"Yes--of course; did your old servant go too?"
"Yes; she died while we were in India."
"I remember her very well. So you went to India?"
"Not directly; we sailed first to Liverpool; then we went on to Paris--strange, we went right through London, and were there not more than an hour or two."
"How long did you stay in Paris?"
"Father had some business there--I don't know what--that kept us for two or three weeks. Then we went to Havre, and took a ship for Bombay."
"And so you were in India most of the time while you were abroad?"
"Yes; we lived in India nearly three years."
"In Bombay?"
"I was in Bombay, but Father was absent a good deal of the time."
"Did you go to school?"
"Yes," she said, smiling.
Dinner was ready. After dinner the Doctor and I sat under the trees. I told him of my wish to return to my company.
"Perhaps it is just as well," said he.
"I think I am fit for duty," said I.
"Yes, you are strong enough," said he.
"Then why are you reluctant?"
"Because I am not quite sure that your health is safe; you ran a narrower risk than your condition now would show."
"And you think there is danger in my reporting for duty?"
"Ordinary bodily exertion will not injure you; exposure might; the weather is very warm."
"There will be nothing for me to do--at least, nothing very hard on me."
"Danger seems at present averted," said Dr. Khayme. "Your depression has gone; if you are not worse to-morrow, I shall not oppose your going."
I plunged into the subject most interesting to me: "Doctor, do you remember telling me, some ten years ago, that you did not think it advisable for me to tell you of my experiences?"
"Yes," he replied.
"And that it was best, perhaps, that I should not think of them?"
"Yes," he replied,
"Yet you referred last night to what you called my peculiar powers."
"Yes, and said that it is possible to make great use of them."
"Doctor, do you know that after I left you in Charleston I had a recurrence of my trouble?"
"I had at least suspected it."
"Why do you call my infirmity a peculiar power?" I asked.
"Why do you call your peculiar power an infirmity?" he retorted. Then, with the utmost seriousness, he went on to say: "Everything is relative; your memory, taking it generally, is better than that of some, and poorer than that of others; as it is affected by your peculiar periods, it is in some features far stronger than the average memory, and in other features it is weaker; have you not known this?"
"Yes; I can recall any object that I have seen; its image is definite, if it has been formed in a lapse."
"But in respect to other matters than objects?"
"You mean as to thought?"
"Yes--speculation."
"In a lapse I seem to forget any mere opinion, or speculation, that is, anything not an established fact."
"Suppose, for instance, that you should to-day read an article written to show that the moon is inhabited; would you remember it in one of your 'states'?"
"Not at all," said I.
"Suppose you should hear a discussion of the tariff question; would you remember it?"
"No, sir."
"Suppose you should hear a discussion upon the right to coerce a seceded State, and should to-day reach a conclusion as to the truth of the controversy; now, would you to-morrow, in one of your 'states,' remember the discussion?"
"No; certainly not."
"Not even if the discussion had occurred previously to the period affected by your memory?"
"I don't exactly catch, your meaning, Doctor."
"I mean to ask what attitude your mind has, in one of your 'states,' toward unsettled questions."
"No attitude whatever; I know nothing of such, one way or the other."
"How, then, could you ever form an opinion upon a disputed question?"
"I don't know, Doctor; I suppose that if I should ever form an opinion upon anything merely speculative, I should have to do it from new material, or repeated material, of thought."
"But now let us reverse this supposition: suppose that to-morrow you are in one of your 'states,' and you hear a discussion and draw a conclusion; will this conclusion remain with you next week when you have recovered the chain of your memory?"
"Yes."
"And your mind would hold to its former decision?"
"Oh, no; not necessarily. I mean that my memory would retain the fact that I had formerly decided the matter."
"And in your recovered state you might reverse a decision made while in a lapse?"
"Certainly."
"But the undoubted truths, or material facts, as some people call them, would still be undoubted?"
"Yes."
"And objects seen while in a 'state' will be remembered by you when you recover?"
"Vividly; if I could draw, I could draw them as well as if they were present."
"It would not be wrong, then, to say that what you lose in one period you gain in another? that what you lose in things doubtful you gain in intensity of fact?"
"Certainly not wrong, though I cannot say that the loss of one causes the gain of the other."
"That is not important; yet I suspect it is true that your faculty is quickened in one function, by relaxation in another. You know that the hearing of the blind is very acute."
"Yes, but I don't see how all this shows my case to be a good thing."
"You can imagine situations in which, hearing is of greater value than sight?"
"Yes."
"A blind scout might be more valuable on a dark night than one who could see."
"Yes, but I cannot see how this affects me; I am neither blind nor deaf, nor am I a scout."
"But it can be said that a good memory may be of greater value at one time than another."
"Oh, yes; I suppose so."
"Now," said Dr. Khayme, "I do not wish you to believe for a moment that there is at present any occasion for you to turn scout; I have merely instanced a possible case in which hearing is more valuable than sight, and we have agreed that memory is worth, more at times than at other times. I should like to relieve you, moreover, of any fears that you, may have in regard to the continuance of your infirmity--as you insist on thinking it. Cases like yours always recover."
"Dr. Abbott once told me that my case was not entirely unique," said I; "but I thought he said it only to comfort me."
"There is nothing new under the sun," said Dr. Khayme; "we have such cases in the records of more than, one ancient writer. Averroes himself clearly refers to such a case."
"He must have lived a long time ago," said I, "judging from the sound of his name; and I doubt that he would have compared well with, our people."
"But more remarkable things are told by the prophets--even your own prophets. The mental changes undergone by Saul of Tarsus, by John on Patmos, by Nabuchodonosor, and by many others, are not less wonderful than, yours."
"They were miracles," said I.
"What is miracle?" asked the Doctor, but continued without waiting for me to reply; "more wonderful changes have happened and do happen every year to men's minds than this which has happened to yours; men lose their minds utterly for a time, and then recover their faculties entirely; men lose their identity, so to speak; men can be changed in an hour, by the use of a drug, into different creatures, if we are to judge by the record their own consciousness gives them."
"I cannot doubt my own senses," said I; "my changes come upon me without a drug and in a moment."
"If you will read Sir William Hamilton, you will find authentic records which will forever relieve you of the belief that your condition is unparalleled. It may be unique in that phase of it which I hope will prove valuable; but as to its being the one only case of the general--"
"I do not dispute there having been cases as strange as mine," I interrupted; "your word for that is enough; but you ought to tell me why you insist on the possibility of a cure and the usefulness of the condition at the same time. If the condition may prove useful, why change it?"
"There are many things in nature," said the Doctor, seriously, "there are many things in nature which show their greatest worth only at the moment of their extinction. Your seeming imperfection of memory is, I repeat, but a relaxation of one of its functions in order that another function may be strengthened--and all for a purpose."
"What is that purpose?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Why can you not?"
"Because," said he, "the manner in which you will prove the usefulness of your power is yet to be developed. Generally, I might say, in order to encourage you, that it will probably be given to you to serve your country in, a remarkable way; but as to the how and when, you must leave it to the future to show."
"And you think that such a service will be at the end of my trouble?"
"I think so," said he; "the laws of the mental world, in my judgment, require that your recovery should follow the period concerning which your factitious memory is brightest."
"But how can a private soldier serve his country in a remarkable way?" I said, wondering.
"Wait," said he.
The Doctor filled his pipe and became silent. Lydia was not on duty this night. She had listened gravely to what had been said. Now she looked up with a faint smile, which I thought meant that she was willing for me to talk to her and yet reluctant to be the first to speak, not knowing whether I had need of silence. I had begun to have a high opinion of Lydia's character.
"And you went to school in Bombay?"
"Yes, at first."
I was not willing to show a bald curiosity concerning her, and I suppose my hesitation was expressed in my face, for she presently continued.
"I studied and worked in the British hospital; you must know that I am a nurse with some training. Father was very willing for me to become a nurse, for he said that there would be war in America, and that nurses would be needed."
Then, turning to the Doctor, she said, "Father, Mr. Berwick asked me to-day when it was that we sailed from Charleston, and I was unable to tell him."
"The third of September, 1857," said the Doctor.
I remembered that this was my sister's birthday and also the very day on which I had written to Dr. Khayme that I should not return to Charleston. The coincidence and its bearing on my affliction disturbed me so that I could not readily continue my part of the conversation, and Lydia soon retired.
"Doctor," said I, "to-morrow morning I shall be ready to report to my company."
"Very well, Jones," he said, "act according to your conscience; I shall see you frequently. There will be no more battles in this part of the country for a long time, and it will not be difficult for you to get leave of absence when you wish to see us. Besides, I am thinking of moving our camp nearer to you."
The winter brought an almost endless routine of drill, guard, and picket duty and digging.
The division was on duty near Budd's Ferry. Dr. Khayme's quarters were a mile to the rear of our left. I was a frequent visitor at his tents. After Willis's return to duty, which was in November, he and I spent much of our spare time at the Sanitary camp. It was easy to see what attracted Jake. It did not seem to me that Dr. Khayme gave much thought to the sergeant, but Lydia gravely received his adoration silently offered, and so conducted herself in his presence that I was puzzled greatly concerning their relations. I frequently wondered why the sergeant did not confide in me; we had become very intimate, so that in everything, except his feeling for Miss Khayme, I was Willis's bosom friend, so to speak; in that matter, however, he chose to ignore me.
One night--it was the night of February 6-7, 1862--I was at the Doctor's tent. Jake was sergeant of the camp guard and could not be with us. The Doctor smoked and read, engaging in the conversation, however, at his pleasure. Lydia seemed graver than usual. I wondered if it could be because of Willis's absence. It seemed to me impossible that this dignified woman could entertain a passion for the sergeant, who, while of course a very manly fellow, and a thorough soldier in his way, surely was not on a level with Miss Khayme. As for me, ah! well; I knew and felt keenly that until my peculiar mental phases should leave me never to return, love and marriage were impossible--so the very truth was, and always had been, that I had sufficient strength to restrain any incipient desire, and prudence enough to avoid temptation. My condition encouraged introspection. I was almost constantly probing my own mind, and by mere strength of will, which I had long cultivated until--I suppose there is no immodesty in saying it--I could govern myself, I drew back from every obstacle which my judgment pronounced insurmountable. The Doctor had been of the greatest help to me in this development of the will, and especially in that phase or exercise of it called self-control; one of his common sayings was, "He who resists the inevitable increases evil."
Ever since when as a boy I had yielded to his friendly guidance, Dr. Khayme had evidently felt a sense of proprietorship in respect to me, and I cherished such relationship; yet there had been many times in our recent intercourse when I had feared him; so keen was the man's insight. The power that he exercised over me I submitted to gratefully; I felt that he was a man well fitted for counselling youth, and I had so many proofs of his good-will, even of his affection, that I trusted him fully in regard to myself; yet, with all this, I felt that his great knowledge, and especially his wonderful alertness of judgment, which amounted in many cases seemingly to prophetic power almost, were doubtful quantities in relation to the war. I believed that he was admitted to high council; I had frequent glimpses of intimations--seemingly unguarded on his part--that he knew beforehand circumstances and projects not properly to be spoken of; but somehow, from a look, or a word, or a movement now and then, I had almost reached the opinion that Dr. Khayme was absolutely neutral between the contestants in the war of the rebellion. He never showed anxiety. The news of the Ball's Bluff disaster, which touched so keenly the heart of the North, and especially of Massachusetts, gave him no distress, to judge from his impassive face and his manner; yet it is but just to repeat that he showed great interest in every event directly relating to the existence of slavery. He commended the acts of General Butler in Virginia and General Fremont in Missouri, and hoped that the Southern leaders would impress all able-bodied slaves into some sort of service, so that they would become at least morally subject to the act of Congress, approved August 6, which declared all such persons discharged from previous servitude. In comparing my own attitude to the war with the Doctor's, I frequently thought that he cared nothing for the Union, and I cared everything; that he was concerned only in regard to human slavery, while I was willing for the States themselves to settle that matter; for I could see no constitutional power existing in the Congress or in the President to abolish or even mitigate slavery without the consent of the party of the first part. I was in the war not on account of slavery, certainly, but on account of the preservation of the Union; Dr. Khayme was in the war--so far as he was in it at all--not for the Union, but for the abolition of slavery.
On this night of February 6, the Doctor smoked and read and occasionally gave utterance to some thought.
"Jones," said he, "we are going to have news from the West; Grant advances."
"I trust he will have better luck than McDowell had," was my reply.
"He will; I don't know that he is a better general, but he has the help of the navy."
"But the rebels have their river batteries," said I.
"Yes, and these batteries are costly, and will prove insufficient; if the North succeeds in this war, and I see no reason to doubt her success if she will but determine to succeed, it will be through her navy."
I did not say anything to this. The Doctor smoked, Lydia sat looking dreamily at the door of the stove.
After a while I asked: "Why is it that we do not move? February is a spring month in the South."
The Doctor replied, "It is winter here, and the roads are bad."
"Is it not winter in Kentucky and Tennessee?"
"Grant has the help of the navy; McClellan will move when he gets the help of the navy."
"What good can the navy do between Washington and Richmond?"
"The James River flows by Richmond," said the Doctor.
I had already heard some talk of differences between our general and the President in regard to a removal of the Army of the Potomac to Fortress Monroe. I asked the Doctor if McClellan would advance on Richmond by the Peninsular route, as it was called.
"He will if he is allowed to do so," replied the Doctor; "at least," he added, "that is my opinion; in fact, I am so well convinced of it that I shall make preparation at once to remove my camp to some good place near Fort Monroe."
This intention was new to me, and it gave me great distress. What I should do with myself after the Doctor had gone, I did not know; I should get along somehow, of course, but I should miss my friends sadly.
"I am very sorry to hear it, Doctor," said I, speaking to him and looking at Lydia; her face was impervious.
"Oh," said the Doctor, with his rare and peculiar smile, "maybe we can take you with us; you would only be going ahead of your regiment."
Lydia's face was still inflexible, her eyes on the fire. I wished for a chance to bring Willis's name to the front, but saw none.
"I don't see how that could be done, Doctor; I confess that I should like very much, to go with you, but how can I got leave of absence?"
"Where there is a will there is a way."
"Yes, but I have no will; I have only a desire," said I, gloomily.
"Well," said the Doctor, "I have will enough for both of us and to spare."
"You mean to say that you can get me leave of absence?"
"Wait and see. When the time comes, there will be no trouble, unless things change very greatly meanwhile."
I bade my friends good night and went back to my hut. The weather was mild. My way was over hills and hollows, making me walk somewhat carefully; but I did not walk carefully enough--I stumbled and fell, and bruised my back.
The next day I was on camp guard. The weather was intensely cold. A bitter wind from the north swept the Maryland hills; snow and rain and sleet fell, all together. For two hours, alternating with, four hours' relief, I paced my beat back and forth; at six o'clock, when I was finally relieved, I was wet to the skin. When I reached my quarters, I went to bed at once and fell into a half sleep.
Some time in the forenoon I found Dr. Khayme bending over me, with his hand on my temples.
"You have had too much of it," said he.
I looked up at him and tried to speak, but said nothing. Great pain followed every breath. My back seemed on fire.
The Doctor wanted to remove me to his own hospital tent, but dreaded that I was too ill. Yet there was no privacy, the hut being occupied by four men. Dr. Khayme found means to get rid of all my messmates except Willis; they were crowded into other quarters. The surgeon of the Eleventh had given the Doctor free course.
For two weeks Willis nursed me faithfully. Dr. Khayme came every day--on some days several times. Lydia never came.
One bright day, near the end of February, I was placed in a litter and borne by four men to the Doctor's hospital tent. My father came. This was the first time he and Dr. Khayme met. They became greatly attached.
My progress toward health, was now rapid. Willis was with me whenever he was not on duty. The Doctor's remedies gave way to simple care, in which Lydia was the chief priest. Lydia would read to me at times--but for short times, as the Doctor forbade my prolonged attention, I was not quite sure that Lydia was doing me good; I liked the sound of her voice, yet when she would cease reading I felt more nervous than before, and I could not remember what she had read. So far as I could see, there was no understanding between Lydia and Willis; yet it was very seldom that I saw them together.
One evening, after the lamps were lighted, my father told us that he would return home on the next day. "Jones is in good hands," said he, "and my business demands my care; I shall always have you in remembrance, Doctor; you have saved my boy."
The Doctor said nothing. I was sitting up in bed, propped with pillows and blankets.
"The Doctor has always been kind to me, Father," said I; "ever since he received the letter you wrote him in Charleston, he has been my best friend."
"The letter I wrote him? I don't remember having written him a letter," said my father.
"You have forgotten, Father," said I; "you wrote him a letter in which you told him that you were sure he could help me. The Doctor gave me the letter; I have it at home, somewhere."
The Doctor was silent, and the subject was not continued.
Conversation began again, this time concerning the movements and battles in the West. The Doctor said; "Jones, the news has been kept from you. On February 6, General Grant captured Fort Henry, which success led ten days later to the surrender of Buckner's army at Fort Donelson."
"The 6th of February, you say?" I almost cried; "that was the last time I saw you before I got sick; on that very day you talked about Grant's coming successes!"
"It did not need any great foresight for that," said the Doctor.
"You said that Grant had the navy to help him, and that he certainly would not fail."
"And it was the navy that took Fort Henry," said my father.
On the day following that on which my father left us, I was sitting in a folding chair, trying to read for the first time since my illness began.
Dr. Khayme entered, with a paper in his hand. "We'll go, my boy," said he; "we'll go at once and avoid the crowd."
"Go where, Doctor?"
"To Fort Monroe," said he.
"Go to Fortress Monroe, and avoid the crowd?"
"Yes, we'll go."
"What are we going there for?"
"Don't you remember that I thought of going there?"
"When was it that you told me, Doctor?"
"On the night before you became ill. I told you that if General McClellan could have his way, he would transfer the army to Fort Monroe, and advance on Richmond by the Peninsular route."
"Yes, I begin to remember."
"Well, President Lincoln has yielded to General McClellan's urgent arguments; the movement will be begun as soon as transportation can be provided for such an operation; it will take weeks yet."
"And you are going to move down there?"
"Yes, before the army moves; this is your written authority to go with me; don't you want to go?"
"Yes; that I do," said I.
"The spring is earlier down there by at least two weeks," said the Doctor; "the change will mean much to you; you will be ready for duty by the time your regiment comes."
Lydia was not in the tent while this conversation was going on, but she came in soon afterward, and I was glad to see that she was certainly pleased with the prospect of moving. Her eyes were brighter. She began at once to get together some loose things, although we had several days in which to make our preparations. I could not keep from laughing at her; at the same time I felt that my amusement was caused by her willingness to get away for a time from the army, rather than by anything else.
"So you are in a hurry to get away," I said.
"I shall be glad to get down there," she replied, "and I have the habit of getting ready gradually when we move. It saves worry and fluster when the time comes." Her face was very bright.
"That is the longest speech you have made to me in a week," said I.
She turned and looked full at me; then her expression changed to severity, and she went out.
That night Willis came; before he saw me he had learned that we were to go; he was very blank.
The 6th of March found us in camp in the Doctor's tents pitched near Newport News. The weather was mild; the voyage had helped me. I sat outside in the sunshine, enjoying the south wind. With the help of the Doctor's arm or of Lydia's--given, I feared, somewhat unwillingly--I walked a little. These were happy days; I had nothing to do but to convalesce. The Southern climate has always helped me. I was recovering fast.
I liked the Doctor more than ever, if possible. Every day we talked of everything, but especially of philosophy, interesting to both of us, though of course I could not pretend to keep pace with, his advanced thought. We talked of the war, its causes, its probable results.
"Jones, it matters not how this war shall end; the Union will be preserved."
I had never before heard him make just this declaration, though I had had intimations that such was his opinion. I was glad to hear this speech. It seemed to place the Doctor in favour of the North, and I felt relieved.
"Continue," I begged.
"You know that I have said many times that the war is unnecessary; that all war is crime."
"Yes."
"Yet you know that I have maintained that slavery also is a crime and must be suppressed."
"Yes, and I confess that you have seemed inconsistent."
"I know you think the two positions contradictory; but both these views are sound and true. War is a crime; slavery is a crime: these are two truths and they cannot clash. I will go farther and say that the North is right and the South is right."
"Doctor, you are astonishing. You will find it hard to convince me that both of these statements can be true."
"Well, are you ready to listen?"
"Ready and willing. But why is it that you say both sections are right? Why do you not prove that they are both wrong? You are speaking of crime, not virtue."
"Of course they are both wrong in the acts of which we are speaking; but in regard to the principles upon which they seem to differ, they are right, and these are what I wish to speak of."
"Well, I listen, Doctor."
"Then first let me say that the world is ruled by a higher power than General McClellan or Mr. Jefferson Davis."
"Agreed."
"The world is ruled by a power that has far-reaching, even eternal, purpose, and the power is as great as the purpose; the power is infinite."
"I follow you."
"This power cannot act contrary to its own purpose, nor can it purpose what it will not execute."
"Please illustrate, Doctor."
"Suppose God should purpose to make a world, and instead of making a world should make a comet."
"He would not be God," said I, "unless the comet should happen to be in a fair way of becoming a world."
"Exactly; to act contrary to His purpose would be caprice or failure."
"Yes; I see, or think I do."
"Not difficult at all; I simply say that war is a crime and slavery a crime. Two truths cannot clash."
"Then you mean to say that God has proposed to bring slavery into existence, and war, also?"
"Not at all. What I mean to say in that His purpose overrules and works beyond both. Man makes slavery, and makes war; God turns them into means for advancing His cause."
"Perhaps I can understand, Doctor, that what you say is true. But I do not see how the South can be right."
"What are all those crowds of people doing down on the battery?" asked Lydia, suddenly.
It was about two o'clock. We had walked slowly toward the beach.
"They are all looking in our direction," said Dr. Khayme; "they see something that interests them."
Across the water in the southeast could be seen smoke, which the wind blew toward us. Some officers upon a low sand-hill near us were looking intently through their field-glasses.
"I'll go and find out," said the Doctor; "stay here till I return."
We saw him reach the hill; one of the officers handed him a glass; he looked, and came back to us rapidly.
"We are promised a spectacle; I shall run to my tent for a glass," said he.
"What is it all about, Father?" asked Lydia.
"A Confederate war-vessel," said he, and was gone.
"I hope she will be captured," said I; "and I have no doubt she will."
"You have not read the papers lately," said Lydia.
"No; what do you mean?"
"I mean that there are many rumours of a new and powerful iron steamer which the Confederates have built at Norfolk," she replied.
"Iron?"
"Yes, they say it is iron, or at least that it is protected with iron, so that it cannot be injured."
"Well, if that is the case, why do we let our wooden ships remain here?"
The Doctor now rejoined us. He handed me a glass. I could see a vessel off toward Norfolk, seemingly headed in our direction. Lydia took the glass, and exclaimed, "That must be the Merrimac! what a strange-looking ship!"
The crowds on the batteries near Newport News and along the shore were fast increasing. The Doctor said not a word; indeed, throughout the prodigious scene that followed he was silent, and, to all seeming, emotionless.
Some ships of-war were at anchor not far from the shore. With the unaided eye great bustle could be seen on these ships; two of them were but a very short distance from us.
The smoke in the south came nearer. I had walked and stood until I needed rest; I sat on the ground.
Now, at our left, toward Fortress Monroe, we could see three ships moving up toward the two which were near us.
The strange vessel come on; we could see a flag flying. The design of the flag was two broad red stripes with a white stripe between.
The big ship was nearer; her form was new and strange; a large roof, with little showing above it. She seemed heading toward Fortress Monroe.
Suddenly she swung round and came slowly on toward our two ships near Newport News.
The two Federal ships opened their guns upon the rebel craft; the batteries on shore turned loose on her.
Lydia put her hands to her ears, but soon took them away. She was used to wounds, but had never before seen battle.
From above--the James River, as I afterward knew--now came down some smaller rebel ships to engage in the fight, but they were too small to count for much.
Suddenly the Merrimac fired one gun, still moving on toward our last ship--the ship at the west; still she moved on, and on, and on, and struck our ship with her prow, and backed.
The Union ships continued to fire; the batteries and gunboats kept up their fire.
The big rebel boat turned and made for our second ship, which was now endeavouring to get away. The Merrimac fired upon her, gun after gun.
Our ship stuck fast, and could not budge, but she continued to fire.
The ship which had been rammed began to lurch and at last she sank, with her guns firing as she went down.
Lydia's face was the picture of desolation. Her lips parted. The Doctor observed her, and drew his arm within his own; she sighed heavily, but did not speak.
The rebel ship stood still and fired many times on our ship aground; and white flags were at last seen on the Union vessel.
Now the small rebel ships approached the prize, but our shore batteries, and even our infantry on shore, kept up a rapid fire to prevent the capture. Soon the small ships steamed away, and the great craft fired again and again into the surrendered vessel, and set her afire.
Then still another Union ship took part in the contest; she also was aground, yet she fought the rebel vessels.
The great ship turned again and steamed toward the south until she was lost in the thickening darkness. Meanwhile, the burning ship was a sheet of flame; we could see men leap from her deck; boats put off from the shore.
"The play is over; let's go to supper," said the Doctor.
"I want no food," said I.
"You must not stay in this air; besides, you will feel better when you have eaten," he replied.
Lydia was silent; her face was wet with tears.
Groups of soldiers stood in our way; some were mad with excitement, gesticulating and cursing; others were mute and white. I heard one say, "My God! what will become of the Minnesota to-morrow?"
The Doctor's face was calm, but tense. My heart seemed to have failed.
The burning Congress threw around us a light brighter than the moon; each of us had two shadows.
We sat down to supper, "Doctor," said I, "how can you be so calm?"
"Why, my boy," he said, "I counted on such, long ago--and worse; besides, you know that I believe everything will come right."
"What is to prevent the Merrimac from destroying our whole fleet and then destroying our coast?"
"God!" said Dr. Khayme.
Lydia, kissed him and burst into weeping.
So far as I can remember, I have passed no more anxious night in my life than the night of the 8th of March, 1862. My health did not permit me to go out of the tent; but from the gloomy rumours of the camps I knew that my anxiety was shared by all. Strange, I thought, that my experience in war should be so peculiarly disastrous. Bull Run had been but the first horror; here was another and possibly a worse one. The East seemed propitious to the rebels; Grant alone, of our side, could gain victories.
The burning ship cast a lurid glare over land and sea; dense smoke crept along the coast; shouts came to my ears--great effort, I knew, was being made to get the Minnesota off; nobody could have slept that night.
The Doctor made short absences from his camp. At ten o'clock he came in finally; a smile was on his face. Lydia had heard him, and now came in also.
"Jones," said he, "what will you give me for good news?"
"Oh, Doctor," said I, "don't tantalize me."
Lydia was watching the Doctor's face.
"Well," said he, "I must make a bargain. If I tell you something to relieve your fears, will you promise me to go to sleep?"
"Yes; I shall be glad to go to sleep; the quicker the better."
"Well, then, the Merrimac will meet her match if she comes out to-morrow."
"What do you mean, Doctor?"
"I mean that a United States war-vessel, fully equal to the Merrimac, has arrived."
Lydia left the tent.
I almost shouted. I could no more go to sleep than I could fly. I started to get out of bed. The Doctor put his hand on my head, and gently pressed me back to my pillow.
About two in the morning I was awaked by a noise that seemed to shake the world. The remainder of the night was full of troubled dreams.
I thought that I saw a battle on a vast plain. Two armies were ranked against each other and fought and intermingled. The dress of the soldiers in the one army was like the dress of the soldiers in the other army, and the flags were alike in colour, so that no soldier could say which flags were his. The men intermingled and fought, and, not able to know enemy from friend, slew friend and enemy, and slew until but two opponents remained; these two shook hands, and laughed, and I saw their faces; and the face of one was the face of Dr. Khayme, but the face of the other I did not know.
Now, dreams have always been of but little interest to me. I had dreamed true dreams at times, but I had dreamed many more that were false. In my ignorance of the powers and weaknesses of the mind, I had judged that it would be strange if among a thousand dreams not one should prove true. So this dream passed for the time from my mind.
We had breakfast early. The Doctor was always calm and grave. Lydia looked anxious, yet more cheerful. There was little talk; we expected a trial to our nerves.
After breakfast the Doctor took two camp-stools; Lydia carried one; we went to a sand-hill near the beach.
To the south of the Minnesota now lay a peculiar vessel. No one had ever seen anything like her. She seemed nothing but a flat raft with a big round cistern--such as are seen in the South and West--amidships, and a very big box or barrel on one end.
The Merrimac was coming; there were crowds of spectators on the batteries and on the dunes.
The Monitor remained near the Minnesota; the Merrimac came on. From each of the iron ships came great spouts of smoke, from each the sound of heavy guns. The wind drove away the smoke rapidly; every manoeuvre could be seen.
The Merrimac looked like a giant by the side of the other, but the other was quicker.
They fought for hours, the Merrimac slowly moving past the Monitor and firing many guns, the Monitor turning quickly and seeming to fire but seldom. Sometimes they were so near each other they seemed to touch.
At last they parted; the Monitor steamed toward the shore, and the great Merrimac headed southward and went away into the distance.
Throughout the whole of this battle there had been silence in our little group, nor did we hear shout or word near us; feeling was too deep; on the issue of the contest depended vast results.
When the ships ended their fighting I felt immense relief; I could not tell whether our side had won, but I know that the Merrimac had hauled off without accomplishing her purpose; I think that was all that any of us knew. At any moment I should not have been astonished to see the Merrimac blow her little antagonist to pieces, or run her down; to my mind the fight had been very unequal.
"And now," said the Doctor, as he led the way back to his camp, "and now McClellan's army can come without fear."
"Do you think," I asked, "that the Merrimac is so badly done up that she will not try it again?"
"Yes," he replied; "we cannot see or tell how badly she is damaged; but of one thing we may feel sure, that is, that if she could have fought longer with hope of victory, she would not have retired; her retreat means that she has renounced her best hope."
The dinner was cheerful. I saw Lydia eat for the first time in nearly two days. She was still very serious, however. She had become accustomed in hospital work to some of the results of battle; now she had witnessed war itself.
After dinner the conversation naturally turned upon the part the navy would perform in the war. The Doctor said that it was our fleet that would give us a final preponderance over the South.
"The blockade," said he, "is as nearly effective as such a stupendous undertaking could well be."
"It seems that the rebels find ways to break it at odd times," said I.
"Yes, to be sure; but it will gradually become more and more restrictive. The Confederates will be forced at length to depend upon their own resources, and will be shut out from the world."
"But suppose England or France recognizes the South," said Lydia.
"Neither will do so," replied her father, "England, especially, thinks clearly and rightly about this war; England cares nothing about states' rights or the reverse; the heart of England, though, beats true on the slavery question; England will never recognize the South."
"You believe the war will result in the destruction of slavery?" I asked,
"Of racial slavery, yes; of all slavery, nominally. If I did not believe that, I should feel no interest in this war."
"But President Lincoln has publicly announced that he has no intention of interfering with slavery."
"He will be forced to interfere. This war ought to have been avoided; but now that it exists, it will not end until the peculiar institution of the South is destroyed. But for the existence of slavery in the South, England would recognize the South. England has no political love for the United States, and would not lament greatly the dissolution of the Union. The North will be compelled to extinguish slavery in order to prevent England from recognizing the South. The Union cannot now be preserved except on condition of freeing the slaves; therefore, Jones, I am willing to compromise with you; I am for saving the Union in order to destroy slavery, and you may be for the destruction of slavery in order to save the Union!
"The Union is destroyed if secession succeeds; secession will succeed unless slavery is abolished; it cannot be abolished by constitutional means, therefore it will be abolished by usurpation; you see how one crime always leads to another."
"But," said I, "you assume that the South is fighting for slavery only, whereas her leaders proclaim loudly that she is fighting for self-government."
"She knows that it would be suicidal to confess that she is fighting for slavery, and she does not confess it even to herself. But when we say 'the South,' let us be sure that we know what we mean. There are two Souths. One is the slaveholding aristocracy and their slaves; the other is the common people. There never was a greater absurdity taught than that which Northern writers and newspapers have spread to the effect that in the South there is no middle class. The middle class is the South. This is the South that is right and wholesome and strong. The North may defeat the aristocracy of the South, and doubtless will defeat it; but never can she defeat the true South, because the principle for which the true South fights is the truth--at least the germ of truth if not the fulness of it.
"The South is right in her grand desire and end; she is wrong in her present and momentary experiment to attain that end. So also the North is right in her desire, and wrong in her efforts.
"The true South will not be conquered; the aristocracy only will go down. Nominally, that is to say in the eyes of unthinking men, the North will conquer the South; but your existing armies will not do it. The Northern idea of social freedom, unconscious and undeveloped, must prevail instead of the Southern idea of individual freedom; but how prevail? By means of bayonets? No; that war in which ideas prevail is note fought with force. Artillery accomplishes naught. I can fancy a battlefield where two great armies are drawn up, and the soldiers on this side and on that side are uniformed alike and their flags are alike, but they kill each other till none remains, and nothing is accomplished except destruction; yet the principle for which each fought remains, though all are dead."
For a time I was speechless.
At length I asked, "But why do you imagine their uniforms and flags alike?"
He replied, "Because flag and uniform are the symbols of their cause, and the real cause, or end, of both, is identical."
"Doctor," I began; but my fear was great and I said no more.
Lydia was kept busy in the hospital; her evenings, however, were spent with her father.
Before the Army of the Potomac began to arrive, I had recovered all my old vigour, and had become restless through inaction. Nobody could say when the Eleventh would come. The troops, as they landed, found roomy locations for their camps, for the rebels were far off at Yorktown, and with only flying parties of cavalry patrolling the country up to our pickets. I had no duty to do; but for the Doctor's company time would have been heavy on my hands.
About the last of March the army had reached Newport News, but no Eleventh. What to do with myself? The Doctor would not move his camp until the eve of battle, and he expressed the opinion that there would be no general engagement until we advanced much nearer to Richmond.
On the 2d of April, at supper, I told Dr. Khayme that I was willing to serve in the ranks of any company until the Eleventh should come.
"General McClellan has come, and your regiment will come in a few days," he replied; "and I doubt if anybody would want you; the troops now here are more than are needed, except for future work. Besides, you might do better. You have good eyes, and a good memory as long as it lasts; you might make a secret examination of the Confederate lines."
"A what? Oh, you mean by myself?"
"Yes."
"Do you think it practicable?" I asked.
"Should I have suggested it if I do not?"
"Pardon me, Doctor; but you were so sudden."
"Well, think of it," said he.
"Doctor, if you'll put me in the way to do it, I'll try it!" I exclaimed, for, somehow, such work had always fascinated me. I did not wish to become a spy, or to act as one for a day even, but I liked the thought of creeping through woods and swamps and learning the positions and movements of the enemy. In Charleston, in my school days, and afterward, I had read Gilmore Simms's scouting stories with, eagerness, and had worshipped his Witherspoon.
"When will you wish to begin?" asked the Doctor.
"Just as soon as possible; this idleness is wearing; to-day, if possible."
"I cannot let you go before to-morrow," said he; "I must try to send you off properly."
When Lydia came in that night, and was told of our purposes by the Doctor, I fancied that she became more serious instantly. But she said little, and I could only infer that she might be creating in her brain false dangers for a friend.
By the next afternoon, which, was the 3d of April, everything was ready for me. The Doctor showed me in his stores-tent a sober suit of gray clothes, not military clothes, but of a cut that might deceive the eye at a distance, yet when closer seen would exonerate the wearer from any suspicion that he was seriously offering himself as a Confederate.
"Now, I had to guess at it," said the Doctor; "but I think it will fit you well enough."
It did fit well enough; it was loose and comfortable, and, purposely, had been soiled somewhat after making. The Doctor gave me also a black felt hat.
"Have you studied the map I gave you?" he asked.
"Yes, I can remember the roads and streams thoroughly," I answered.
"Then do not take it; all you want is a knife and a few trivial things such as keys in your pocket, so that if you should be searched nothing can be proved. Leave all your money in bills behind; coin will not be bad to take; here are a few Confederate notes for you."
"Do I need a pass?"
"Yes; here is a paper that may hang you if you are caught by the Confederates; use it to go through your lines, and then destroy it; I want you to get back again. If you should be captured, a pass would betray you; if your men got you and will not let you go, it will not be difficult to explain at headquarters."
"I suppose you have already explained at headquarters?"
"Don't ask questions. Now you must sit down and eat; you don't know when you will get another meal."
At dusk I started. My purpose was to avoid our own pickets and reach before dawn a point opposite the right of the rebel line, which was believed to rest on James River, near or at Mulberry Island, or Mulberry Point; I would then watch for opportunities, and act accordingly, with the view of following up the rebel line, or as near to it as possible.
I took no gun or anything whatever to burden me. I was soon outside the guard line of the camp. My way at first was almost due north by the Young's Mill road. Darkness quickly came, and I was glad of it. The stars gave me enough light. My road was good, level, sandy--a lane between two rail fences almost hidden with vines and briers. At my left and behind me I could hear the roar of the surf.
When I had gone some two miles, I thought I hoard noises ahead, I stopped, and put my ear to the ground. Cavalry. Were they our men, or rebels? I did not want to be seen by either. I slipped into a fence corner. A squad rode by, going toward Hampton, no doubt. I waited until they had passed out of sight, and then rose to continue my tramp, when suddenly, before I had made a step, another horseman rode by, following the others. If he had looked in my direction, he would have seen me; but he passed on with his head straight to the front. I supposed that this last man was on duty as the rear of the squad.
Now I tore up my pass into little bits and tossed them away. The party of cavalry which, had passed me, I believed, were our patrol, and that I should find no more of our men; so I was now extremely cautious in going forward, not knowing how soon I might run against some scouting party of the rebels.
The road soon diverged far from the shore; the ground was sandy and mostly level; and in many places covered with, a thick, small growth. The imperfect light gave me no extended vision, but from studying the map before I had set out I had some idea of the general character of the country at my right, as well as a pretty accurate notion of the distance I must make before I should come near to the first rebel post; though, of course, I could not know that such post had not been abandoned, or advanced even, within the last few hours.
I went on, then, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left and straight ahead, and every now and then stopping to listen. My senses were alert; I thought of nothing but my present purposes; I felt that I was alone and dependent upon myself, but the feeling was not greatly oppressive.
Having gone some four or five miles, I saw before me a fence running at a right angle to the road I was on; this fence was not continued to the left of my road, so I supposed that at this fence was the junction of the road to Little Bethel, and as I had clearly seen before I started that at this junction there was danger of finding a rebel outpost, or of falling upon a rebel scouting party, I now became still more cautious, moving along half bent on the edge of the road, and at last creeping on my hands and knees until I reached the junction.
There was nobody in sight. I looked long up the road toward Little Bethel; I went a hundred yards or so up this road, found nothing, and returned to the junction; then continued up the road toward Young's Mill. The ground here I knew must be visited frequently by the rebels, and my attention became so fixed that I started at the slightest noise. The sand's crunching under my feet sounded like the puffing of a locomotive. The wind made a slight rippling with the ends of the tie on my hat-band, I cut the ends off, to be relieved of the distraction.
I was going at the rate of a mile a day, attending to my rear as well as to my advance, when I heard, seemingly in the road to Bethel, at my rear and right, the sound of stamping hoofs. I slunk into a fence corner, and lay perfectly still, listening with all my ears. The noise increased; it was clear that horsemen from the Bethel road were coming into the junction, a hundred yards in my roar.
The noises ceased. The horsemen had come to a halt.
But had they come to a halt? Perhaps they had ridden down the road toward Newport News.
Five minutes, that seemed an hour, passed; then I heard the hoof-beats of advancing cavalry, and all at once a man darted into my fence corner and lay flat and still.
It is said that at some moments of life, and particularly when life is about to end, as in drowning, a man recalls in an instant all the deeds of his past. This may or may not be true; but I know, at least, that my mind had many thoughts in the situation in which I now found myself.
I felt sure that the party advancing on the road behind me were rebels.
They were now but a few yards off.
An instant more, and they would pass me, or else they would discover me.
If I should spring to my feet and run up the road, the horsemen would ride me down at once.
If I should climb the fence, my form, outlined against the sky, would be a mark for many carbines.
If I should lie still, they might pass without seeing me.
But what could I expect from my companion?
Who was he? ... Why was he there? ... Had he seen me? ... Had the rebels, if indeed they were rebels, seen him? ... If so, were they pursuing him?
But no; they were not pursuing him, for he had come from the direction of Young's Mill. He would have met the horsemen had he not hidden.
If I could but know that he had seen me, my plan surely would be to lie still.
Yes, certainly, to lie still ... if these riders were rebels.
But to lie still if my companion was a friend to the rebels? If he was one of theirs, should I lie still?
No; certainly not, unless I preferred being taken to being shot at.
If the horsemen were Union troops, what then? Why, in that case, my unknown friend must be a rebel; and if I should decide to let the troops pass, I should be left unarmed, with a rebel in two feet of me.
Yet, if the cavalry were our men, and the fugitive a rebel, still the question remained whether he had seen me.
It seemed impossible for him not to see me. Could he think I was a log? Certainly not; there was no reason for a log to be in such a place; there were no trees large enough, and near enough to justify the existence of a log in this place.
All these thoughts, and more also, passed through my mind while the horsemen moved ten paces; and before they had moved ten paces more, I had come to a decision.
I had decided to lie still.
There could be but one hope: if I should run, I could not get away. I would lie still. If the unknown should prove to be a friend, my case might be better than before; if he should prove to be an enemy, I must act prudently and try to befool him. I must discover his intentions before making mine known. He, also, must be in a great quandary.
The horsemen passed. They passed so near that I could have told whether they were from the North or the South by their voices, but they did not speak.
There was not enough light for me to see their uniforms, and, indeed, I did not look at them, but instinctively kept my face to the ground.
The horsemen passed on up the road toward Young's Mill.
Now there was silence. I yet lay motionless. So did my companion. I was right in one thing; he knew of my presence, else he would now rise and go his way. He knew of my presence, yet he did not speak; what was the matter with him?
But why did not I speak? I concluded that he was fearing me, just as I was fearing him.
But why should he fear me, when, he could not doubt that I was hiding from the same persons whom he had shunned to meet?
But I was there first; he had not known that I was there; his hiding in a fence corner was deliberate, in order to escape the observation of the horsemen; his hiding in this particular fence corner was an accident.
Who is he? What is he thinking about, that he doesn't do something? He has no reason to fear me.
But fear has no reason. If he is overcome with fear, he dreads everything. He has not recovered from the fright the horsemen gave him.
But why do I not speak? Am I so overcome with fear that I cannot speak to a man who flees and hides? I will speak to him--
"Mahsa," said he, humbly, right in my ear.
I sat bolt upright; so did he.
"Speak low," said I; "tell me who you are."
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you; what is your name?"
"My name Nick."
"What are you doing here?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you; what are you doing here?"
"I'se des' a-restin', mahsa; I'se mighty tired."
"You are hiding from the soldiers."
"What sojers, mahsa?"
Clearly Nick was no simpleton; he was gaining time; he might not yet know which side I belonged to. I must end this matter. The night was cool. I had no blanket or overcoat. While walking I had been warm, but now I was getting chilly.
Yet, after all, suppose Nick was not a friend. However, such, a supposition was heterodox; every slave must desire freedom; a slave who does not wish to be free is an impossibility.
"Who were the soldiers who rode by just now?"
"I dunno, mahsa."
"Then, why did you hide from them?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes; why did you run and hide?"
"De s'caze I dunno who dey is."
This was very simple; but it did not relieve the complication. I must be the first to declare myself.
"Were they not--" I checked myself in time, I was going to say rebels, but thought better of it; the word would declare my sympathies. I was not so ready, after all.
"W'at dat you gwine to say, mahsa?"
Neither was Nick ready to speak first; he was a quick-witted negro.
"I was going to ask if they were Southern soldiers."
"You dunno who dey is, mahsa?"
Yes; Nick was sharp; I must be discreet now, and wary--more so. I knew that many Confederate officers had favourite slaves as camp servants, slaves whom they thought so attached to them as to be trustworthy. Who could know, after all, that there were no exceptions amongst slaves? My doubts became so keen that I should not have believed Nick on his oath. He might tell me a lie with the purpose of leading me into a rebel camp. I must get rid of him somehow.
"Mahsa," said Nick, "is you got any 'bacco?"
"No" said I; then, "yes, I have some smoking tobacco."
"Dat's mighty good hitse'f; won't you please, sa', gimme a little?"
I was not a smoker, but I knew that there was a little loose tobacco in one of my pockets; how it came to be there I did not know.
"Thankee; mahsa; dis 'bacoo makes me bleeve you is a--" Nick hesitated,
"A what?"
"A good man," said Nick.
"Nick," I said, "I want to go up the road."
"W'at fur you gwine up de road, mahsa?"
"I want to see some people up there."
Nick did not reply. Could he fear that I was wanting to take him into the Southern lines? It looked so.
The thought almost took away any fear I yet had that he might betray me. His hesitation was assuring.
I repeated, "I want to see--I mean I want to look at--some people up the road."
"Dem sojers went up the road des' now, mahsa."
"Do you think they will come back soon?"
"I dunno, mahsa; maybe dey will en' maybe dey won't."
"Didn't you come from up the road?"
"Mahsa, how come you ain't got no gun?"
This threatened to be a home-thrust; but I managed to parry it; and to give him as good.
"Do Southern officers carry guns?"
"You Southern officer, mahsa?"
"Southern officers carry swords and pistols," said I; "didn't you know that, Nick?"
"Mahsa," said Nick, very seriously.
"What is it, Nick?"
"Mahsa, fo' God you ain't no Southern officer."
"What makes you think so, Nick?"
"Caze, of you was a Southern officer you wouldn't be a-gwine on lak you is; you 'ud des' say, 'Nick, you dam black rascal, git back to dem breswucks on' to dat pick en' to dat spade dam quick, or I'll have you strung up;' dat's w'at you'd say."
Unless Nick was intentionally fooling me, he was not to be feared. He was willing for me to believe that he had run away from the Confederates.
"But suppose I don't care whether you get back or not; there are enough niggers working on the fortifications without you. I'd like to give you a job of a different sort," said I, temptingly.
"W'at dat job you talkin' 'bout, mahsa?"
"I want you to obey my orders for one day,"
"W'at I hatto do, mahsa?"
"Go up the road with me," said I.
Nick was silent; my demand did not please him; yet if he wanted to betray me to the rebels, now was his chance. I interpreted his silence to mean that he wanted to go down the road, that is to say, that he wanted, to make his way to the Union army and to freedom. I felt so sure of this that I should not have been surprised if he had suddenly set out running down the road; yet I supposed that he was still in doubt of my character and feared a pistol-shot from me. He was silent so long that I fully made up my mind that I could trust him a little.
"Nick," said I, "look at my clothes. I am neither a Southern officer nor a Northern officer. I know what you want: you want to go to Fortress Monroe. You shall not go unless you serve me first; if you serve me well, I will help you in return. Go with me for one day, and I'll make it worth your while."
"W'at you want me to go wid you fer? W'at I hatto do?"
"Guide me," said I; "show me the way to the breastworks; show me how to see the breastworks and not be seen myself."
"Den w'at you gwine do fer me?"
It amused me to see that Nick had dropped his "mahsa." Did he think it out of place, now that he knew I was not a Southern soldier?
"Nick, I will give you a dollar for your day's work; then I will give you a note to a friend of mine, and the note will bring you another dollar and a chance to make more."
Nick considered. The dollar was tempting; as to the note, the sequel showed that he did not regard it of any importance, finally, he said that if I would make it two dollars he would be my man, I felt in my pockets, and found about four dollars, I thought, and at once closed the bargain.
"Now; Nick," said I, "here is a dollar; go with me and be faithful, and I will give you another before dark to-morrow."
"I sho' do it," said Nick, heartily; "now w'at I hatto do?"
"Where is the first Confederate post?"
"You mean dem Southern sojers?"
"Yes."
"You mean dem dat's do fust a-gwine up de road, or dem dat's fust a-comin' down de road?"
"The nearest to us in this direction," said I, pointing.
"Dey is 'bout half a mile up dis road," said Nick.
"Did you see them?"
"I seed 'em fo' true, but dey didn't see me."
"How did you keep them from seeing you?"
"I tuck to do bushes; ef dey see me, dey string me up."
"How long ago was it since you saw them?"
"Sence sundown," said Nick,
"When did you leave the breastworks?"
"Las' night."
"And you have been a whole day and night getting here?"
"In de daytime I laid up," said Nick; "caze I dunno w'en I might strak up wid 'em."
"How far have you come in all?"
"'Bout 'leben or ten mile, I reckon. I laid up in de Jim Riber swamp all day."
"Did you have anything to eat?"
"Yassa; but I ain't got nothin' now no mo'."
"Do you know where we can get anything to eat to-morrow?"
"Dat I don't; how is we a-gwine to hole out widout sum'hm to eat?"
"We must risk it. I hope we shall not suffer."
"Dis country ain't got nothin' in it," said Nick; "de folks is almos' all done gone to Richmon' er summers[1] en' I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do; I don't. I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do fer sum'hm to eat. And I don't know w'at I's a-gwine to do fer 'bacco nudda."
[1] Somewhere [Ed.].
"Well, Nick, I can give you a little more tobacco; but I expect you to find something to eat; if you can find it, I will pay for it."
We were wasting time; I wanted to make a start.
"Now, Nick" said I; "I want to go to Young's Mill, or as near it as I can get without being seen."
"Dat all you want to do?" asked Nick.
"No; I want to do that first; then I want to see the breastworks. First, I want to go to Young's Mill."
"W'ich Young's Mill?" asked Nick; "dey is two of 'em."
"Two?"
"Yassa; one Young's Mill is by de chu'ch on de Worrick road; de yudda one is de ole Young's Mill fudda down on de creek."
"I want the one on the Warwick road," said I.
"Den dat's all right," said Nick; "all you got to do is to keep dis straight road."
"But we must not show ourselves," said I.
"Don't you fret about dat; I don't want nobody to see me nudda; des' you follow me."
Nick left the road, I following. We went northeast for half a mile, then northwest for a mile or more, and found ourselves in the road again.
"Now we's done got aroun' 'em," said Nick; "we's done got aroun' de fust ones; we's done got aroun' 'em; dis is twicet I's done got aroun' 'em, 'en w'en I come back I's got to git aroun' 'em agin."
"How far is it to Young's Mill, Nick?"
"I 'spec' hit's 'bout fo' mile," said Nick.
We were now within the rebel lines, and my capture might mean death. We went on, always keeping out of the road. Nick led the way at a rapid and long stride, and I had difficulty in keeping him in sight. The night was getting cold, but the walk heated me. Here and there were dense clumps of small trees; at the little watercourses there was larger growth. The roar of the sea was heard no longer. It must have been about midnight.
We came upon swampy ground; just beyond it a road crossed ours.
"Stop a little, Nick," said I.
Nick came to a halt, and we talked in low tones; we could see a hundred yards in every direction.
"Where does that road go?" I asked.
"Dat road," said Nick, pointing to the left; "hit goes to ole Young's Mill."
"How far is old Young's Mill?"
"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."
"Where does the right-hand lead?"
"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick; "en' at Mis Cheeseman's dey is calvry, on' at ole Young's Mill dey is calvry, but dey is on de yudda side o' de creek."
"How far is it to Mrs. Cheeseman's?"
"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."
We went on. The ground was again swampy. We came to a road running almost west; a church stood on the other side of the road.
"Dat's Danby Chu'ch," said Nick, "en' dat road hit goes to Worrick."
"And where does the right-hand lead?"
"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick.
"And where is Young's Mill?" I asked.
"Hit's right on dis same road we's on, en not fur off, nudda."
We had now almost reached my first objective. I knew that Nick was telling me the truth, in the main, for the plan of the map was still before my mind's eye.
"Can we get around Young's Mill without being seen?" I asked.
"Dey's a picket-line dis side," said Nick.
"How far this side?"
"'Bout a quauta' en' a ha'f a quanta.'"
"How near can we get to the picket-line?"
"We kin git mos' up to 'em, caze dey's got de trees cut down."
"The trees cut down in their front?"
"Yassa; dey's got mos' all de trees out down, so dey is."
"And we can get to this edge of the foiled timber?"
"Yassa; we kin git to de falled timba', but we's got to go roun' de pon'."
"And if we go around the pond first; we shall then find the picket-line?"
"De picket-line at Young's Mill?"
"Yes."
"Ef we gits roun' de pon', we'll be done got roun' de picket-line, en' de trees w'at dey cut down, en' Young's Mill, en' all."
"Well, then, Nick, lead the way around the pond, and keep your eyes wide open."
Nick went forward again, but more slowly for a while; then he turned to the right, through the woods. We went a long distance and crossed a creek on a fallen log. I found that this negro could see in the darkness a great deal better than I could; where I should have groped my way, had I been alone, he went boldly enough, putting his foot down flat as though he could see where he was stepping. Nick said that there were no soldiers in these woods and swamps; they were all on the road and at Young's Mill, now a mile at our left.
At length we reached the road again. By this time I was very tired; but, not wanting to confess it, I said to Nick that we should wait by the side of the road for a while, to see if any soldiers should pass. We sat in the bushes; soon Nick was on his back, asleep, and I was not sorry to see him go to sleep so quickly, for I felt sure that he would not have done so if he had meant to betray me.
I kept awake. Only once did I see anything alarming. A single horseman came down the road at a leisurely trot, and passed on, his sabre rattling by his side. When the sound of the horse's hoofs had died away, I aroused Nick, and we continued west up the road. At last Nick stopped.
"What's the matter now, Nick?" I whispered.
"We's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he said.
"Again? Have we gone wrong?"
"We ain't gone wrong--but we's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he repeated.
"Where are we?"
"We's gittin' mos' to Worrick; ef we gits up to de place, den w'at you gwine to do?"
"I want to stay there till daylight, so that I can see them and know how many they are."
"Den w'at you gwine to do?"
"Then I want to follow their line as near as I can, going toward Yorktown."
"Den all I got to say is dat hit's mighty cole to be a-layin' out in de woods widout no fiah en' widout no kiver en' widout noth'n' to eat."
"That's true, Nick; do you know of any place where we could get an hour or two of sleep without freezing?"
"Dat's des' w'at I was a-gwine to say; fo' God it was; ef dat's w'at you gwine to do; come on."
He led the way again, going to the left. We passed through woods, then a field, and came to a farmhouse,
"Hold on. Nick," said I; "it won't do to go up to that house."
"Dey ain't nobody dah," said Nick; "all done runned off to Richmon' er summers."
The fences were gone, and a general air of desolation marked the place.
Nick went into an outhouse--a stable with a loft--- and climbed up into the loft. I climbed up after him. There was a little loose hay in the loft; we speedily stretched ourselves. I made Nick promise to be awake before sunrise, for I feared the place would be visited by the rebels.
When I lay down I was warm from walking, and went to sleep quickly. When I awoke I was cold; in fact, the cold woke me.
I crept to the door of the stable and looked out; at my left the sky was reddening. I aroused Nick, who might have slept on for hours had he been alone.
The sun would soon warm us; but what were we to do for food? Useless to search the house or kitchen or garden; everything was bare. I asked Nick if he could manage in any way to get something to eat. He could not; we must starve unless accident should throw food in our way.
A flock of wild geese, going north, passed high. "Dey'll go a long ways to-day," said Nick; "ain't got to stop to take on no wood nor no water."
We bent our way toward the Warwick road. At the point where we reached it, the ground was low and wet, but farther on we could see dryer ground. We crossed the road and went to the low hills. From a tree I could see the village of Warwick about a mile or so to the west, with the road, in places, running east. There seemed to be no movement going on. Nick was lying on the ground, moody and silent. I had no more tobacco.
I came down from the tree and told Nick to lead the way through the woods until we could get near the rebel pickets where their line crossed the road.
About nine o'clock we were lying in the bushes near the edge of felled timber, through an opening in which, ran the road at our left. At long intervals a man would pass across the road where it struck the picket-line.
Both from the map and from Nick's imperfect delivery of his topographical knowledge I was convinced that the main rebel line was behind the Warwick River, and that here was nothing but an outpost; and I was considering whether it would not be best to turn this position on the north, reach the river as rapidly as possible, and make for Lee's Mill, which I understood was the rebel salient, and see what was above that point, when I heard galloping in the road behind us. Nick had heard the noise before it reached my ears.
A rebel horseman dashed by; at the picket-line he stopped, and remained a few moments without dismounting; then went on up the road toward Warwick Court-House.
At once there was great commotion on the picket-line. We crept up as near as we dared; men were hurrying about, getting their knapsacks and falling into ranks. Now came a squadron of cavalry from down the road; they passed through the picket-line, and were soon lost to sight. Then the picket marched off up the road. Ten minutes more and half a dozen cavalrymen came--the rear-guard of all, I was hoping--and passed on.
The picket post now seemed deserted. Partly with the intention of getting nearer the river, but more, I confess, with the hope of appeasing hunger, Nick and I now cautiously approached the abandoned line. We were afraid to show ourselves in the road, so we crawled through the felled timber.
The camp was entirely deserted. Scattered here and there over the ground were the remains of straw beds; some brush arbours--improvised shelters--were standing; we found enough broken pieces of hardtack to relieve our most pressing want.
I followed the line of felled timber to the north; it ended within two hundred yards of the road.
"Nick," said I; "what is between us and the river in this direction?" pointing northwest.
"Noth'n' but woods tell you git down in de bottom," said Nick.
"And the bottom, is it cultivated? Is it a field?"
"Yassa; some of it is, but mos' of it ain't."
"Are there any more soldiers on this side of the river?"
"You mean 'long here?"
"Yes."
"Well, I dunno ezackly; I reckon dey is all gone now; but dey is some mo' up on dis side, up higher, up on de upper head o' de riber, whah Lee's Mill is."
"How far is it to Lee's Mill?"
"Hit's mos' fo' mile."
"How deep is the river above Lee's Mill?"
"Riber is deep down below de mill."
"Is the river deep here?" pointing west.
"Yassa; de tide comes up to Lee's Mill."
"Are there no Southern soldiers below Lee's Mill?"
"Dey goes down dat-away sometimes."
"Are there any breastworks below Lee's Mill?"
"Down at de mill de breswucks straks off to de Jim Riber up at de Pint."
"Up at what Point?"
"Up at de Mulberry Pint."
"And right across the river here, there are no breastworks?"
"No, sa'; dey ain't no use to have 'em dah."
Feeling confident that the movements I had seen indicated the withdrawal of at least some of the rebel outposts to their main line beyond the Warwick, and that I could easily and alone reach the river and follow it up--since the rebel line was on its other bank or beyond--I decided to let Nick go.
"Nick," said I; "I don't believe I shall need you any more now."
"You not a-gwine to gimme dat yudda dolla'?"
"Oh, yes; of course I shall pay you, especially if you will attend closely to what I tell you; you are to serve me till night, are you not?"
"Yassa."
"Well, I want you to go to the Union army at Newport News for me. Will you do it?"
"Yassa."
"Now, Nick, you must look sharp on the road and not let the rebels catch you."
"I sho' look sharp," said Nick.
"And look sharp for the Union army, too; I hope you will meet some Union soldiers; then you will be safe."
"I sho' look sharp," said Nick.
"I want you to carry a note for me to the Union soldiers."
"Yassa."
I wrote one word on a scrap of paper that I had picked up in the rebel camp. I gave the paper to Nick.
"Throw this paper away if you meet any rebels; understand?"
"Yassa."
"When you meet Union soldiers, you must give this paper to the captain."
"Yassa."
"The captain will ask you what this paper means, and you must tell him that the Southern soldiers are leaving Warwick Court-House, and that the paper is to let him know it."
"Yassa; I sho' do it; I won't do noth'n' but look sharp, en' I won't do noth'n' but give dis paper to de cap'n."
"Then here is your other dollar, Nick. Good-by and good luck to you."
Nick started off at once, and I was alone again.
My next objective was Lee's Mill, which I know was on the Warwick River some three miles above. Without Nick to help my wits, my cautiousness increased, although I expected to find no enemy until I was near the mill. I went first as nearly westward as I could know; my purposes were to reach the river and roughly ascertain its width and depth; if it should be, as Nick had declared, unfordable in these parts, its depth would be sufficient protection to the rebels behind it, and I would waste no time in examining its course here. Through the undergrowth I crept, sometimes on my hands and knees, and whenever I saw an opening in the woods before me, I paused long and looked well before either crossing or flanking it. After a while I reached heavy timber in the low ground, which I supposed lay along the river. At my left was a cleared field, unplanted as yet, and in the middle of the field a dwelling with outhouses. I approached the house, screening myself behind a rail fence. The house was deserted. I passed through the yard. There was no sign of any living thing, except a pig which scampered away with a loud snort of disapproval. The house was open, but I did not enter it; the windows were broken, and a mere glance showed me that the place had been stripped.
Again I plunged into the woods, and went rapidly toward the river, for I began to fear that I had been rash in coming through the open. Soon I struck the river, which here bent in a long curve across the line of my march. The river was wide and deep.
At once I felt confidence in Nick's declarations. There could be little need for Confederate fortifications upon the other side of this unfordable stream.
It must have been about noon; I thought I heard firing far to my rear, and wondered what could be going on back there.
Leaving the river, I directed my steps toward the northeast. So long as I was in the woods I went as rapidly as I could walk, and the country, even away from the river, was much wooded. My knowledge of the map placed Lee's Mill northeast of Warwick, and northeast I went, but for fully three hours I kept on and found no river again. I felt sure that I had leaned too far to the east, and was about to turn square to my left and seek the river, when I saw before me a smaller stream flowing westward. I did not understand. I knew that I had come a much greater distance than three miles; I had crossed two large roads running north; this stream was not down on the map. Suddenly the truth was seen; this stream was the Warwick itself, and above Lee's Mill; here it was small, as Nick had intimated.
I turned westward; I had come too far; there must be a great angle in the river below me, and that angle must be at Lee's Mill.
Not more than a hunched yards down the stream there was a dam, seemingly a new dam made of logs and earth. At the time I could not understand why it was there. On the other side of the water, which seemed to be deep, though narrow; I could hear a drum beating. A road, a narrow country road, ran seemingly straight into the water. Only a few steps to my left there was an elbow of the road, I moved to this elbow, keeping in the bushes, and looked down on the water. There was no sign of a ferry; I could see the road where it left the water on the other side, and I could see men passing back and forth across the road some two or three hundred yards away.
For a long time I racked my brains before I understood the meaning of this road's going into deep water. What could it mean? Certainly there was a reason for it, and a strong reason. The ordinary needs of the country would require a ferry, and there was no ferry. I had looked long and closely, and was sure there was no ferry, and was almost as sure that there never had been one. The road before my eyes was untravelled; the ruts were weeks old, without the sign of a fresh track since the last rains; the road was not now used, that was a certainty.
When was this road used? ... The whole situation became clear; the road had been a good road before the rebels came; when they fortified their lines they rendered the road useless. They destroyed the ford by building the dam below.
I made my way down the stream, little elated at my solution of what at first had seemed a mystery, for I felt that Nick would have told me offhand all about it.
In less than a mile I came to another road running into deep water. Now, thought I, if my solution is correct, we shall shortly see another dam, and it was not five minutes before I came in sight of the second dam.
I climbed a tree near by; I could see portions of a line of earthworks on the other side of the river. The line of works seemed nearly straight, at least much more nearly so than the river was. To attack the Confederate lines here would be absurd, unless our troops could first destroy the dams and find an easy crossing.
By this time the middle of the afternoon had passed, and I was famishing. I believed it impossible that I should be able to get any food, and the thought made me still hungrier; yet I cast about me to see if there was any way to get relief. I blamed myself for not having brought food from camp. I had made up my mind to remain this night near the river, as I could not get back to camp, seeing that my work was not yet done, until the next day; so I must expect many hours of sharp hunger unless I could find food.
I now felt convinced that on the rebel left there was a continuous line of works behind the Warwick, from Lee's Mill up to Yorktown, and all I cared to prove was whether that line had its angle at the former place, as Nick had declared, and as seemed reasonable to me from every consideration. I would, then, make my way carefully down the river to Lee's Mill, and if possible finish my work before sunset; but my hunger was so great that I thought it advisable to first seek food. So, deferring my further progress down the stream, I set out in an easterly direction by the road which had crossed previously above the second dam, in the hope that this road would lead me to some house where help could be found, for I was now getting where risks must be run; food was my first need.
However, I did not expose myself, but kept out of the road, walking through this woods. My road was soon enlarged by another road joining it, coming in from the north and seeming well worn from recent use. I had been walking for nearly a mile when I heard a noise behind me--clearly the noise of horses coming. I lay flat behind a bush which grew by a fallen tree. Three horsemen--rebels--passed, going southward. They passed at a walk, and were talking, but their words could not be distinguished. The middle man was riding a gray horse.
About half a mile, or perhaps less, farther on, the woods became less dense, and soon I came to a clearing; in this clearing was what the Southern people call a settlement, which consisted of a small farmhouse with, a few necessary outbuildings.
Hitched to the straight rail fence that separated, the house yard from the road, were three horses, one of them gray, with saddles on their backs. I was not more than fifty yards distant from the horses, and could plainly see a holster in front of one of the saddles.
No sound came from the house. I lay down and watched and listened. The evening was fast drawing on, and there were clouds in the west, but the sun had not yet gone down, and there would yet be an hour or two of daylight. I feared that my approach to Lee's Mill must be put off till the morrow.
A woman came out of the house and drew a bucket of water at the well in the yard. She then returned into the house, with her pail of water. Now the sound of men's voices could be heard, and the stamping of heavy foot within the house; a moment afterward three men came out and approached the horses.
The woman was standing at the door; one of the men shaded his eyes with his hand and looked toward the west, where a dazzling cloud-edge barely hid the sun from view. He was looking directly over my head; dropping his hand he said, "An hour high, yit." This man was nearer to me than the others were. I could less distinctly hear the words of the others, but when this one got near their horses a conversation was held with the woman standing in the doorway, and the voices on both sides were raised.
"Yes," said one of the men, preparing to mount the gray horse, "yes, I reckin this is the last time we'll trouble you any more."
"Your room's better'n your company," said the woman, whose words, by reason of her shrill voice, as well as because she was talking toward me, were more distinctly heard than the man's.
"Now don't be ungrateful," said the man, who by this time was astride his horse; "you've not lost anything by me. If the Yanks treat you as well as us, you may thank your God."
"Self-praise is half scandal," said the woman; "I'm willin' to risk 'em if God sends 'em."
The man, turning his horse and riding after his two companions, shouted back: "Hit's not God as is a sendin' 'em; hit's somebody else!"
"You seem to be mighty well acquainted!" fired the woman, as a parting shot.
When the man had overtaken his comrades at the turning of the road, I had but little reluctance in going into the house. The woman stared at me. My gray civilian clothes caught her eye; evidently she did not know what to think of me. She said nothing, and stood her ground in the middle of the floor.
I first asked for a drink of water; she point to the bucket, in which there was a common gourd for a dipper. I quenched my thirst; then I said; "Madam, I will pay you well if you will let me have what cold food you have in the house."
"Did you see them men a-ridin' away from here jest now?" she asked.
"I heard some voices," said I; "who were they?"
"They was some of our men; three of 'em; they et up most ev'ything I had, so I hain't got much."
"See what there is," said I, "and please be as quick as you can."
She went into another room, and speedily returned with a "pone" of corn-bread.
"This is all they is," she said.
"Have you no potatoes? no bacon?"
"I've got some bacon," she said; "but it ain't cooked."
"Let me have a pound or two, anyway," said I.
She brought out a large piece of bacon. "My ole man's gone down to Worrick to-day," she said, "an' won't be back tell night; an' you soldiers, a-leavin' the country all at oncet, hit makes me feel kinder skittish."
"Yes," said I; "I don't wonder at your alarm, for they say the Yankees are coming. I don't suppose they will be here before to-morrow, though--maybe not till the day after."
"Them other men said they was the last to go," she replied; "but I reckin they didn't know you was a-comin' on behind 'em."
"No," said I; "if they had known I was coming, they wouldn't have run off and left me so; I might have ridden behind one of them. I don't suppose I can overtake them now, unless they atop again."
"That you can't," said she; "they won't have no call to stop tell they git to the camp, an' hit's jest this side of the mill."
"How far is it to Lee's Mill?" I asked,
She looked at me suspiciously, and I feared that I had made a mistake.
"Hit's not fur," she replied; "hain't you never been thar?"
"Nut by this road," I answered. "How much shall I pay you?"
"Well, Mister, I don't know; set your own price."
I handed her a silver half-dollar. Her eyes fastened on me. I had made another mistake.
"If that is not enough," said I, "you shall have more," showing her a one-dollar Confederate note.
"Oh, this is a plenty," she replied; "but I was a-wonderin' to see silver agin."
"I have kept a little for hard times," I said.
"You have? Well, the sight of it is cert'n'y good for sore eyes."
"Can I reach Lee's Mill before dark?" I asked.
"Well, I reckin you kin, ef you walk fast enough," she said; "anyhow, you kin git to the camp on this side."
"Well, good day, madam; I wish you well," said I.
"Good-by, Mister," she said.
I had already opened the gate, when I heard her come to the door; she raised her voice a little, and said,--
"When you git to the big road, you'll be in a mile o' the mill."
So long as I was in sight of the house I kept in the road, but as soon as I got through the clearing, I struck off to the right through the woods. I was seeking some hiding place where I could eat and sleep.
When, early in the morning, I had seen the pickets retire from the post near Warwick, I had thought that the rebels were all withdrawing to their main lines; this thought had received some corroboration from the firing heard in my rear later in the day; I had believed the Union troops advancing behind me; but afterward I had seen other rebels at the woman's house, and I now doubted what I had before believed. Besides, it was clear from the woman's words that there was a rebel post this side of Lee's Mill, and I was yet in danger.
The woods wore dense. Soon I saw before me a large road running west, the big road of which the woman had spoken, no doubt. I crept up to it, and, seeing no one in either direction, ran across it, and into the woods beyond. I went for half a mile or more, in a southwest course, and found a spot where I thought I could spend the night in safety. For fear of being detected I dug a hole, with my knife, in the earth, and piled the loose earth around the hole; then I lighted a fire of dry sticks at the bottom. Night had not yet come, but it was very gloomy in this dense thicket surrounded by woods; I had little fear that any reflection or smoke would betray me, for the thicket was impenetrable to the view of any one who should not come within two rods. I broiled my bacon and toasted my bread, and though I fared very well, yet after eating I wanted water and chose to remain thirsty rather than in the darkness to search for a spring or a stream in the woods.
I quenched the fire with the loose earth; I raked up leaves with my hands and made a bed. I had no covering, but the night was not cold, threatening rain, and the thicket sheltered me from the wind.
Some time in the night I awoke to find that I had dreamed of lying in a mountain brook with my mouth up stream and the water running through my whole body. My mouth was parched. I must have water at any risk.
I set out in I know not what direction. I had put the remains of my supper into my coat pocket, for my judgment told me that in all likelihood I could never return to the spot I was leaving.
Before I had been walking ten minutes, I knew that I was completely lost; I went through thickets and briers, over logs and gullies, round and round, I suspect, for hour in and hour out, until just before day I saw the reflection of fire through the woods, and at the same time almost fell into a small pool. It was the reflection of the light by the pool which at once showed me the water and saved me from finding it with a sense other than sight.
I drank and drank again; then I wondered what the fire meant. Although it seemed far off, I was afraid of it; likely enough it was some rebel camp-fire; I had no idea whither I had wandered, I turned my back on the light, and walked until I could see it no more; then I stretched myself under a tree, but could not sleep. Day was coming.
After a while it began to rain, and I had a most uncomfortable time of it. It required considerable effort of will on my part to determine to move, for I did not know which way to start. I set out, however, and had gone a short distance, when I noticed the green moss at the root of a large tree, and I remembered that I had read in stories of Indians and hunters that such moss always grows on the north side of the trees. So I then turned westward, for I knew that I had crossed no road in my wanderings of the night, and I also know that the main road from Warwick Court-House to Lee's Mill was at the west. A little at my left I saw a great tree with a sloping trunk, and I went to it for shelter; it was raining harder. When I reached the tree I saw a road just beyond. I sat under the tree, the inclined trunk giving me shelter from the rain and hiding me from the road. While eating the remains of my supper, I heard the tramp of horses, and looking out cautiously, saw a company of rebel cavalry going northward at a trot. At the same time I could distinctly hear skirmish firing behind me, not half a mile off, seemingly. The rain still fell and I held my place.
All at once I saw two men in the road; they were Union soldiers--infantry--skirmishers.
Before I could speak to them I was aware of the fact that an advancing line of our skirmishers was on either side of me.
"Hello, here!" cried one of them; "who are you?"
"Keep your place in line, Private Lewis," said an officer, coming up, "I'll attend to that man."
"Privates Jones and George, halt! Skirmishers, fill intervals to the right!"
Two men came to the lieutenant.
"Who are you, sir?" asked the lieutenant.
"Private Berwick, Eleventh Massachusetts," said I.
"Do you know anything of the enemy? Speak quick!"
"They are this side of Lee's Mill, Lieutenant, but I got lost in the night, and I don't even know where I am now. About fifty of their cavalry went by ten minutes ago."
The line went on in the rain.
The lieutenant placed me in charge of the two men, ordering them to take me at once to the rear, and to report to General Davidson. I have never learned the name of that lieutenant; he had some good qualities.
Meanwhile a sharp skirmish was going on in front, and our line did not seem to advance. A section of artillery dashed by. I began to understand that, if I had gone on a few hundred yards, I should have run upon the enemy in force.
I was brought before General Davidson. He was on horse, at the head of his brigade. He asked me my name.
"Jones Berwick, General," said I.
"What is your business?"
"I am a private, sir, in the Eleventh Massachusetts."
He smiled at this; then he asked, still smiling, "Where is your regiment?"
"It is in camp below Washington, General, I suppose; at least, it had not reached Newport News on the evening of the day before yesterday."
"How is it that you are here while your regiment is still near Washington?"
"I had surgeon's leave to precede my regiment on account of my health, General."
"And this is the way you take care of your health, is it, by lying out in the woods in the rain?"
"It was a month ago, General, that the surgeon dismissed me, and I am now fully recovered."
General Davidson looked serious. "You were at Newport News on day before yesterday?"
"I was near Newport News, sir, at the Sanitary camp. General McClellan had just arrived at Fortress Monroe; so I heard before I left."
"And what are you doing here? I think you have the Southern accent."
"I have been told so before, General; but I am not a Southerner; I came out to observe the rebel lines."
"By whose authority?"
Now, I could have told General Davidson that I had had a pass, signed by such an officer; but I feared to do so, lest some complication should arise which would give trouble to such an officer, for Dr. Khayme had not fully informed me about my privileges.
"It was only a private enterprise, General."
"Tell me all about it," he said.
I said briefly that, on the day before, I had passed up the Warwick River; and that the main line of the enemy lay behind it; that the fords had been destroyed by dams, and that there were no rebels on this side of the river now, in my opinion, except pickets, and possibly a force just in front of Lee's Mill.
"But do you not hear the rebel artillery now?" he asked.
"I think, General, that the rebel artillery is firing from the other side of the river, but I admit that I am not sure of it. Night came on me yesterday before I could reach Lee's Mill, and I have nothing but hearsay in regard to that place."
"What have you heard?"
I told him what the woman had said.
"What proof can you give me that you are not deceiving me?" he asked sternly.
"I do not know, General," said I, "that I can give you any proof; I wish I could; perhaps you can so question me as to satisfy you."
The general sent a courier to the front. He then wrote a line on a piece of paper, and handed the note to another courier, who rushed off to the rear. In a few minutes an officer rode up from the rear; he saluted General Davidson, who spoke earnestly to him in a low tone. I could easily guess that he was speaking of me.
Then, the officer approached me, and asked many questions about my service:--where I was from--where was my regiment from--who was its colonel--who was my captain--how I had come to the army ahead of my regiment, etc. To all these questions I gave brief and quick replies. Then the officer asked for a detailed account of my scout, which I gave him in as few words as I knew how to use. When I spoke of Nick, his eye brightened; when I spoke of giving Nick a note, he nodded his head. Then he asked, "What did you write?"
"The word going," I said.
"Have you a pencil?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Here, take this, and write the word going," he said, handing me a small blank-book.
On a leaf of the book I wrote the word, and my signature below.
Then the officer took another book from his pocket, and looked attentively at both books.
Then he said: "General, I think there is something in what he says. Better be careful of your advance."
And to me, "You must need rest and food; come with me, Mr. Berwick."
That night I slept in Dr. Khayme's tent.
After having been well treated at General Keyes's headquarters, I had been given a seat in an ambulance going back to Newport News. The officer who had questioned me proved to be one of the general's aides. The negro Nick had succeeded in avoiding the rebels, and had delivered my message, with which my handwriting showed identity; moreover, General Keyes, when the matter was brought to his attention, immediately declared with a laugh that his friend Khayme's protégé was a "brick."
The physical and mental tension to which I had been continuously subjected for more than two days was followed by a reaction which, though natural enough, surprised me by its degree. I lay on a camp-bed after supper, utterly done. The Doctor and Lydia sat near me, and questioned me on my adventures, as they ware pleased to term my escapade. Lydia was greatly interested in my account of my visit to the woman's house; the Doctor's chief interest was centred on Nick.
"Jones," said he, "you were right from a purely prudential point of view in testing the negro well; but in your place I should have trusted him the instant I learned that he was a slave."
"But, Father," said Lydia; "you surely don't think that all the slaves wish to be free."
"No, I don't; but I believe that every man slave, who has independence of character sufficient to cause him to be alone at night between two hostile armies, wishes to be free."
"You are right, Doctor," said I; "but you must admit, I think, that at the time I could hardly reason so clearly as you can now."
This must have been said very sleepily, for Lydia exclaimed, "Father, Mr. Berwick needs rest."
"Yes, madam; he needs rest, but not such as you are thinking of. Let me fully unburden himself in a mild and gentlemanly way; then he can sleep the sleep of the just."
"Oh, Father, your words sound like a funeral service."
"I am alive, Miss Lydia; and you know the Doctor believes that the just live forever."
"The just? I believe everybody lives forever, and always did live."
"Even, the rebels?" then I thought that I should have said "slaveholders."
"Rebels will live forever, but they will cease to be rebels, that is, after they have accomplished their purposes, and rebellion becomes unnecessary."
"Then, you admit at last that rebellion, and consequently war, are necessary?"
"No, I don't see how you can draw such an inference," said the Doctor; "rebellion cannot make war necessary, and hostility to usurped authority is always right."
"How can there be such without war as a consequence?" I asked languidly.
"Father," said Lydia, "please let Mr. Berwick rest."
"Madam, you are keeping him from going to sleep; I am only making him sleepy."
Lydia retired.
I wondered if the Doctor knew to the full what he was saying. He continued: "Well, Jones, I'll let you off now on that subject; but I warn you that it is the first paper on the programme for to-morrow. By the way, you will have but a few days' rest now; your regiment is expected on the tenth."
"Glad to hear it, Doctor."
"So you think the Confederate lines are very strong?"
"Yes, they are certainly very strong, at least that part of them that I saw. What they are near Yorktown, I cannot say, of course."
"I can see one thing," said the Doctor.
"What is that?"
"The map we have is incorrect."
"How so?"
"It makes the Warwick creek too short and too straight."
"I found it very long," said I; "and it is wide, and it is deep, and it cannot be turned on the James River side except by the fleet."
"The fleet is not going to turn that line; the fleet is doing nothing, and probably will do nothing until the Merrimac is disposed of."
"Doctor, how in the world do you get all your information?"
"By this and that," said the Doctor.
"How we are to get at the rebels I can't see," said I.
"On the Yorktown end of their line," replied the Doctor.
"It seems to me a singular coincidence," said I, "that our troops should have been advancing behind me all day yesterday."
"Do you object?" he asked.
"Not at all; I was about used up when they found me. What I should have done I don't well see."
"You would have been compelled to start back," he said.
"Yes," said I, "and I had no food, and should have been compelled to wait till night to make a start."
Dr. Khayme was exceedingly cheerful; he smoked incessantly and faster than he usually smoked. The last thing I can remember before sleep overcame my senses was the thought that the idol's head looked alive, and that the smoke-clouds which rose above it and half hid the Doctor's face were not mere forms that would dissipate and be no more; they seemed living beings--servants attendant on their master's will.
The next day was cold and damp. I went out but little. I wrote some letters, and rested comfortably. The Doctor gave me the news that Yorktown had been invested, and that there was promise of a siege instead of a battle.
"They have found the Confederate lines too strong to be taken by assault," said he; "and while McClellan waits for reënforcements, there will be nothing to prevent the Confederates from being reënforced; so mote it be."
"What! You are not impatient?"
"Certainly not."
"And you are willing for the enemy to be reënforced?"
"Oh, yes; I know that the more costly the war the sooner it will end."
"I think McClellan ought to have advanced before," said I; "he is likely to lose much time now."
"He has plenty of time; he has all the time there is."
"All the time there is! that means eternity."
"Of course; he has eternity, no more and no less."
"That is a long time," said I, thinking aloud.
"And as broad as it is long," said the Doctor; "everything will happen in that time."
"To McClellan?"
"Why not to McClellan? To all."
"Everything is a big word, Doctor."
"No bigger than eternity."
"And McClellan will win and will lose?"
"Yes."
"I hardly understand, Doctor, what you mean by saying that everything will happen."
"I mean," said he, "that change and eternity are all the conditions necessary to cause everything to come to pass."
"The rebels will win and the North will win?"
"Yes; both of these seemingly contradictory events will happen."
"You surely are a strange puzzle."
"I give myself enough time, do I not?"
"But time can never reconcile a contradiction."
"The contradiction is only seeming."
"Did both Confederates and Union troops win the battle of Bull Run?"
"The Confederates defeated the Federals," said the Doctor; "but the defeat will prove profitable to the defeated. What I mean by saying both North and South will win, you surely know; it is that the divine purpose, working in all the nations, will find its end and accomplishment, and this purpose is not limited, in the present wicked strife, to either of the combatants. What the heart of the people of both sections wants will come; what they want they fight for; but it would have come without war, as I was about to tell you last night, when you interrupted me by going to sleep."
"Yes," said I, laughing, "you were going to tell me how rebellion could exist and not bring war."
"And Mr. Berwick made his escape," said Lydia.
"But you promised to give it to me to-day, Doctor."
"Give it to me! That is an expression which I have heard used in two senses," said the Doctor.
"Well, you were giving it to me last night; now be so good as to give it."
"Better feel Mr. Berwick's pulse first, Father."
"You people are leagued against me," said he; "and I shall proceed to punish you."
"By refusing me?"
"No; by giving it to you. I said, did I not, that rebellion does not necessarily bring war?"
"That is the postulate," I replied.
"Then, first, what is rebellion?"
"Rebellion," said I, "rebellion--rebellion," seeking a definition, "rebellion is armed hostility, within a nation or state, to the legalized government of the nation or state."
"I am willing to accept that," said the Doctor; "now let us see if there have not been cases of rebellion without war. What do you say of Jeroboam and the ten tribes?"
"I say that there was about to be war, and the Almighty put a stop to it."
"That is all I pray for," said the Doctor; "then, what do you say of Monk?"
"What Monk?"
"The general of the commonwealth, who restored Charles the Second."
"Monk simply decided a dilemma," said I. "I don't count that a rebellion; the people were glad to settle matters."
"Well, we won't count Monk; what do you say--"
"No more, Doctor," I interrupted; "I admit that rebellion does not bring war when, the other party won't fight."
"But it is wrong to fight," he said.
"Then every rebellion ought to succeed," said I.
"Certainly it ought, at least for a time. What I am contending is that every revolution should be peaceable. Would not England have been wiser if she had not endeavoured to subdue the colonies? Suppose the principle of peace were cherished: the ideas that would otherwise cause rebellion would be patiently tested; the men of new or opposite ideas would no longer be rebels; they would be statesmen; a rebellion would be accepted, tried, and defeated by a counter rebellion, both peaceable. It is simply leaving things to the will of the majority. Right ideas will win, no matter what the opposition to them. Better change the arena of conflict. A single champion of an idea would once challenge a doubter and prove his hypothesis by the blood of the disputant; you do the same thing on a great scale. The Southern people--very good people as you and I have cause to know--think the constitution gives them the right, or rather cannot take away the right, to withdraw from the Union; you Northern people think they deserve death for so thinking, and you proceed to kill them off; you intend keeping it up until too few of them are left to think fatally; but they will think, and your killing them will not prove your ideas right."
"And so you would settle it by letting them alone? Yes, I know that is what you think should be done. But how about slavery?" I asked, thinking to touch a tender spot.
"The North should have rebelled peaceably against slavery; many a Southern man would have joined this peaceable rebellion; the idea would have won, not at once, neither will this war be won at once; but the idea would have won, and under such conditions, I mean with the South knowing that the peaceable extension of knowledge concerning principle was involved, instead of massacre according to the John Brown idiocy, a great amelioration in the condition of the slave would have begun immediately. The South, would have gradually liberated the slaves."
"Doctor, you are saying only that we are far from perfection."
"No; I am saying more than that; I am saying that we ought to have ideals, and strive to reach them."
On the 12th we learned that Hooker's division had landed at Ship Point, and had formed part of the lines investing Yorktown. On the next day I rejoined my company. Willis gave a yell when he saw me coming. The good fellow was the same old Willis--strong, brave, and generous. We soon went off for a private chat.
"What have you been doing with, yourself all this time?" he asked.
"I've been with. Dr. Khayme--at Newport News, you know. Our camp was never moved once; what have you been doing?"
"Same old thing--camp guard, and drill, and waiting our turn to come. Say, Berwick, do you know the new drill?"
"What new drill?"
"Hardee."
"You don't say!"
"Fact. Whole division."
"Do you like it better?"
"Believe I do."
"We'll have no time to drill here," said I; "we'll have enough, to do of another sort."
Yet I was compelled to make the change, which referred to the manual of arms, Hardee's tactics, in which, system the piece is carried in the right hand at shoulder arms, having been substituted for Scott's, which provides for the shoulder on the left side. There was no actual drill, however, and my clumsy performance--clumsy compared with, that of the other men of the company who had become accustomed to the change--was limited to but little exercise, and was condoned by the sergeants because of my inexperience.
I noticed that Willis did not mention Lydia's name. I did not expect him to mention it, though. I knew he was wanting to hear of her; and I did not feel that I ought to volunteer in giving him information concerning the young lady. He asked me about Dr. Khayme, however, and thus gave me the chance to let him know that the Doctor himself would move his quarters to the rear of our lines, but that his daughter would remain at the hospital at Newport News until the army should advance beyond Yorktown.
And now, for almost a full month, we fronted the rebel lines of Yorktown. Our regiment was in the trenches much of the time, and frequently in the rifle-pits. The weather was bad; rain fell almost every other day, and at night we suffered from cold, especially on the picket-lines, where no fires were allowed. I suppose I stood the hardships as well as most of the men, but I could not have endured much more. Willis's programme of the campaign had been completely upset; he had said that we should take Yorktown in a week and pursue the routed rebels into Richmond, and now we were doing but little--so far as we could see--to bring matters to a conclusion. The artillery of the rebels played on our lines; and our guns replied; the pickets, too, were frequently busy popping away at each other, and occasionally hitting their marks. Ever since the siege of Yorktown, where I saw that great quantities of lead and iron were wasted, and but few men hurt,--though Dr. Khayme maintained that the waste became a crime when men were killed,--I have had a feeling of disgust whenever I have read the words "unerring rifles." More lies have been told about wars and battles, and about the courage of men, and patriotism, and so forth, than could be set down in a column of figures as long as the equator. From April 13 to May 4 the casualties of the Army of the Potomac before Yorktown did not reach half of one per cent. The men learned speedily to dodge shells, and I remember hearing one man say that he dodged a bullet. He saw a black spot seemingly stationary, and knew at once that the thing was coming in a straight line for his eye. The story was swallowed, but I think nobody believed it, except the hero thereof, who was a good soldier, however, and ordinarily truthful. How can you expect a man, who is supremely interested in a small incident, to think it small? For my part, it was a rarity to see even a big shell, unless it was a tired one. I dodged per order, mostly. Of course, when I saw the smoke of a cannon, and know that the cannon was looking toward me, I got under cover without waiting for the long roll; but it was amusing sometimes to hear fellows cry out, "I see a shell coming this way," at the smoke of a gun, and have everybody seeking shelter, when no sound of a shell would follow, the missile having gone into the woods half a mile to our right or left.
I grew more attached to Willis. If the Army of the Potomac had in its ranks any better soldier than this big red-beaded sergeant, I never saw him. He was ready for any duty, no matter what: to lead a picket squad into its pits under fire; to serve all night on the skirmish detail in place of a sick friend; to dig and shoot and laugh, and swear, in everything he was simply superb. That I do not quote his cuss-words must not be taken as an indication, that they were commonplace. Everything he did he did with, his might, almost violently. He was a good shot, too, within the range of the smooth-bore. The rebel pickets--most of them--seemed to be better armed than we were; it was said that they had received some cargoes of long Enfields--nine hundred yards' range, according to the marked sights, and no telling how far beyond--by blockade-runners. They could keep us down behind the pits while they would walk about as they chose, unless a shell from one of our batteries was flung at them, in which case they showed that they, too, had been studying the dodging lesson. Willis was greatly disgruntled over the fact that the rebels were the better armed, and frequently his temper got the upper hand of him. A bullet went through his hat one day when he was trying vainly to pick off a man in a rifle-pit; Willis's bullet would cut the dirt a hundred yards too short; the Enfield Minié ball would go a-kiting over our heads and making men far to our rear look out. Sometimes Willis was very gloomy, and I attributed this condition to his passion for Lydia, though, on such a subject he never opened his mouth to me.
One dark rainy night, about the 21st, I believe, Willis and I were both on the picket detail. It came my time for vedette duty, and Willis was the sergeant to do the escort act. There had been skirmishing on this part of the line the preceding day, but at sunset, or the hour for sunset if the weather had been fair, the firing had ceased as we marched up and relieved the old pickets. We were in the woods, the most of us, but just here, on the right of our own detail, there were a few rifle-pits in the open, the opposing skirmish, lines being perhaps four hundred yards apart, and our vedette posts--we maintained them only at night--being about sixty yards in advance of our pits, and always composed of three men for each post. We found our three men numb with, cold, two lying near the edge o£ the woods, in a big hole made by a shell, while the other stood guard. They had seen nothing and heard nothing except the ordinary sounds of the night. The clouds reflected the peculiar glow of many fires in front. It was not long till day. The two men, my companions on post, whispered together, and then proposed that I should take the first watch. Willis had returned to the line with, the relieved vedettes. I had no objection to taking the first watch, yet I hesitated, simply because the two men had whispered. I fancied there was some reason for the request, and I asked bluntly why they had decided it was my turn without giving me a voice in the matter. You know it is the custom to decide such affairs by lot, unless some man volunteers for the worst place. They replied that they were old friends, and that as I was a stranger to them, the detail being made up from various companies, they preferred lying together.
This explanation, did not seem very satisfactory, for the reason that in two hours we should all be relieved; yet I consented, and they lay down in the hole, which was little more than a mud-puddle, for fear of some sudden, volley from the rebels.
The position of the man on watch at this point was just at the left oblique from the other men, say about ten paces, and very near to a tree which stood apart from the rest of the forest, a scraggy pine of second growth, not very tall, but thick and heavy, with, its limbs starting from the trunk as low as eight feet from the ground. I stood near this tree, within reach of it by a leap. Our nearest vedette posts, right and left, were a hundred yards from me--the one on the left being in the woods, that on the right in the open. The country called the Peninsula is low and flat and very swampy in many parts, and the great quantity of rain that had now fallen for days and days had rendered the whole land a loblolly, to use a common figure. I saw that just in front of me, about thirty yards, there was a shallow ravine, and I began to think that it was possible for an enterprising squad of rebels to sneak through this ravine and get very near us before we knew it, and perhaps capture us; such things had been done, if the truth was told, not only by the rebels, but by many other people at war.
Beyond the ravine were the Confederates, their skirmish line about three hundred yards beyond it, and their nightly vedette posts nobody knew where, for they used similar economy to ours in withdrawing their vedettes in the day. The Doctor's talks, many of which I can but barely mention, had opened my eyes a little to the possibility of accurate inferences, that is to say, his philosophy of cause and effect, or purpose, as he liked better to call it, had been urged upon me so frequently and so profoundly that I had become more observant; he had made me think of the relations of things. Philosophy, he had said, should be carried into everyday life and into the smallest matters; that was what made a good fisherman, a good farmer, a good merchant, and a good soldier, provided, he had added, there could be such a thing. This ravine, then, had attracted me from the first. I saw that it presented opportunity. A few rebels might creep along it, get into the woods, make prisoners of the vedettes on several posts, and then there would be a gap through which our skirmish line might be surprised.
I went quietly forward in the edge of the woods until I stood near the ravine, and examined it as well as I could for the darkness. It did not extend into the forest, for the roots of the trees there protected the soil from washing away. The undergrowth at my left was not very dense; I judged that in daylight one could see into the forest a hundred yards or more. At my right, the gully began and seemed to widen and deepen as it went, but nothing definite could I make out; all was lost in the night.
My examination of the spot had been made very quickly, for I was really transgressing rule in leaving my post, even for a more forward place but thirty yards away, and I was back at my tree in less than a minute.
The two men were yet lying in the hole; they had not observed my short absence, I was glad to see. I did not know these men, and I would not like them to know that I had left my post. Yet I felt that I had done right in leaving it; I had deserted it, technically speaking, but only to take a proper precaution, in regard to the post itself. Then, what is a man's post? Merely the ground with which the soles of his feet are in touch? If he may move an inch, how far may he move? Yet I was glad that the men had not seen me move and come back, and I was glad, too, that they had made the proposal that I should take the first watch, for I had discovered danger that must be remedied at once. It was almost time now for one of these men to take my place.
My fear increased. The motionless men at my right, unconscious of any new element of danger, added to my nervousness. I must do something.
I walked to the men and spoke in a low tone.
"Who stands watch next?"
"Me. But it's not time yet."
"Not quite," I said; "but it will be soon. I want you to go back to the line and tell Sergeant Willis that I'd like to see him a minute."
"Go yourself," he said; "I'm not under your orders."
"If you will do what I ask, I'll take your watch for you," said I.
The tempting offer was accepted at once; the man rose and said, "What is it you say I'm to tell him?"
The other man also had risen.
"Only that I want to see him."
"Anything wrong?"
"No; tell him I want to see him for a moment out here; that is all."
The man went; his companion remained standing--he had become alarmed, perhaps.
When Willis came I was under the tree.
"What's up, Jones?"
"I want to know what that dark line means there in front."
"It's a gully," says he.
"I wish you would go out there and look about you; I think our post ought to be where we can see into it."
"All right," said he; "I'll go and look at it."
I remained on post. It would not do, I thought, to give any intimation to the men that I had been to the ravine; they were standing near me.
In two minutes Willis returned.
"Jones," says he; "move your post up here. You men stay where you are."
We went out together, Willis and I, to the edge of the ravine.
"You're right, Jones," he says, in a whisper; "the post ought to be here."
"Yes; it would be easy for those fellows over yonder to surprise us. This ravine ought to be watched in the day even."
The sergeant showed no intention of leaving me; he seemed to be thinking. Suddenly he gave his thigh, a resounding slap.
"There!" says he, "now I've done it--but maybe they won't know what that noise means. Say, Jones, I've got an idea."
"Let's have it."
"We can get lots of fun out here."
"I don't understand. What are you driving at?"
"Well," says he, "you just leave it all to me. Don't you say a word to them fellows. I'll fix it up and let you in, too. Just be mum now, old man."
"Tell me what you mean."
But he had already started back.
It ought to be showing signs of day behind me, I was thinking; yet the weather was bad, and, although it had stopped raining, I knew that in all likelihood we should have a thick fog which would prolong the duty of the vedettes and make another relief necessary.
When Willis appeared again, three other men were following--good men of Company D. I could hear him say to my two fellows; "Go on back to the line; your time's not up, but you are relieved."
When he reached me, he put Thompson in my place, and led the way back a short distance and into the edge of the woods.
"Now, men," says he; "we're going to make a fort of that ravine. We want to fill these sand-bags, and we want some straw or something to screen them. Jones, you must go twenty yards or so beyond the gully till I whistle for you, or call you. The rest of us will do the work while you watch."
The sergeant's little scheme for having his fun was now clear enough. One of the party had brought a spade, and I noticed that others seemed to have come up in no light marching order. Willis meant to occupy the ravine and remain for the day, if possible, in this advanced post, so near the rebels that his bullets would not fall short. It was all clear enough.
The party had begun work before I went forward. Passing Thompson, I skirted the edge of the woods, and went some thirty or forty yards to my right oblique in the open, and then lay flat, with my eyes to the front. Soon I heard muffled sounds behind me; the men were filling the sand-bags. My position cramped me, my neck became stiff. No sound reached me from the front; I supposed that the nearest rebel vedette was not nearer than two hundred yards, unless at a point more advanced from his lines there was some natural protection for him. But what prevented my being surprised from the woods on my left? I lay flat and stiffened my neck; light was beginning to show.
At length I heard Willis call me, and I didn't make him call twice. The ravine, as the light became greater, showed itself almost impregnable against an equal force of skirmishers. Just where an angle in the western edge presented a flank of wall toward the north, Willis and his gang had cut away the earth into a shelf some three feet beneath the top. Ten sand-bags filled with earth surmounted the summit, with open spaces between, in order that a musket might be fired through, these handy port-holes, and the sand-bags were covered with, sedge from the open field. I congratulated our commander on his engineering feat.
The sun had risen, perhaps, but the fog had not lifted; we could yet see neither enemy nor friend. Willis put me on the right, and reserved the centre for his own piece; the centre happened to be about two feet nearer the enemy. From left to right the line was manned by Freeman, Holt, Willis, Thompson, Berwick.
"Men, attention!" says Willis.
"Take the caps off of your pieces!"
The order was obeyed, the men looking puzzled. Willis condescended to explain that we must fire a volley into a crowd as Act First; that any man who should yield to the temptation to fire without orders, was to be sent back to the line at once.
Slowly the fog began to break; the day would be fair. Suddenly a bullet whistled overhead; then the report came from the rebel side.
"Be quiet, men!" says Willis.
Everybody had rushed to his place.
"Eat your breakfast," says Willis.
We had no coffee; otherwise we fared as usual.
"The rebels have no coffee, neither," says Willis.
The breakfast was being rapidly swallowed.
"Hello, there!" shouts Willis, and springs for the spade.
Another bullet had whistled above us, this one from our own line in the rear.
The spade was wielded vigorously by willing hands, passing from one to another, until a low rampart, but thick, would protect our heads from the fire of our skirmish line. Meantime the fusillade from both sides continued.
Willis was at the parapet.
"Look out!" he cries.
A shell passed just above us, and at once a shower of bullets from the rebels.
"Here, men, quick!" says Willis.
We sprang to the embrasures. The rebels were plainly visible three hundred yards away, their heads distinct above their pits. Our skirmish line behind us seemed gone; the shell had been fired not at us but at our skirmishers, and the volley we had heard had been but the supplement of the artillery fire--all for the purpose of getting full command of our line, on which not a man now dared to show his head, for a dozen Minié balls would go for it at the moment. Unquestionably the rebels had not detected our little squad.
"Prime, men!" says Willis.
The guns were capped.
"Now, hold your fire till the word!"
Very few shots were now coming. The rebels were having it all their own way, nobody replying to them. Their bodies to their waists could be seen; some of them began to walk about a little, for they were not in any sort of danger, that is, from our line. They were firing with a system: pit No. 1 would send a ball, then in ten seconds, pit No. 2, and so on down their line, merely to keep the advantage they had gained. At irregular intervals two or three shots would be sent at some dummy--a hat or coat held up by the bayonets of men behind the pits in our rear.
"Ready!" says Willis.
Three men were in a group between two of the pits. Another joined them.
"Aim! Fire!"
Five triggers were pulled.
"Two down, by the--!" roared Willis, with, a more remarkable oath, than any I ever saw in print.
The wind was from the southeast, and the smoke had rolled my way; I had been unable to see the result. In fact, I could hardly see anything. Put yourself in a hole, and raise your head until your eyes are an inch, or two above the surface of ground almost level--what can you see? But for a slight depression between us and the rebels, the position would have been worthless; yet every evil, according to Dr. Khayme, has its use, or good side--our fortress was hidden from the enemy, who would mistake it, if they saw it at all, for one of the pits in our rear, perspective mingling our small elevation with the greater ones beyond.
We had leaped back into the ravine, which, here was fully eight feet deep and roomy, and were ramming cartridges. All at once a rattle of firearms was heard at the rear. Our skirmish-line had taken advantage of the diversion brought, and had turned the tables; not a shot was coming from the front.
Freeman looked through an embrasure. "Not a dam one in sight," he said.
Time was passing; the fire of our skirmishers continued; we were doing nothing, and were nervously expectant.
Holt wished for a pack of cards.
A council of war was held. Thompson was fearful of our left; a gang of rebels might creep through the woods and take us; we were but sixty yards from the woods. Willis had confidence that our line could protect us from such a dash; "they would kill every man of 'em before they could git to us," To this Thompson replied that if the rebels should again get the upper hand, and make our men afraid to show their heads, the rebels could come on us from the woods without great danger. Willis admitted that Thompson had reason, but did not think the rebels had yet found us out; at any rate, they would be afraid to come so near our strong skirmish-line; so for his part, he wasn't thinkin' of the left; the right was the place of danger--what was down this gully nobody knew; the rebels might sand a force up it, but not yet, for they didn't know we were here.
Again a rebel shell howled above, and again a volley from the front was heard as bullets sang over us, and our men behind us became silent.
We sprang to place, every eye on watch, every musket in its port-hole.
"Don't waste a shot, men," says Willis; "we're not goin' to have another chance like that. Take it in order from right to left. Berwick first. Wait till a man's body shows; don't shoot at a head--"
I had fired--Thompson fired immediately after. He had seen that my shot missed. Again the musketry opened behind us, and both sides pegged away for a while. Thompson claimed that he had hit his man.
Suddenly a loud rap was heard on one of the sand-bags,--one of the bags between Willis and Holt,--a bullet had gone through and into the wall of the ravine behind us. Willis fired.
"Damnation!" says he, "I believe they see us."
Yet it was possible that this was an accident; Holt fired, and then Freeman, and it became my turn again.
That bullet which had become entirely through the sand-bag and buried itself deeply in the ground, gave me trouble. I did not believe that an ordinary musket had such force, and I doubted whether an Enfield had it. The rebels were getting good arms from England. It might be that some man over there had a Whitworth telescope rifle; if so he had detected us perhaps--a telescope would enable him to do it. I said nothing of this speculation, but watched. Rebel bullets continued to fly over. I saw a man as low as his waist and fired; almost at the same moment my sand-bag was struck--the second one on my right, which protected that flank, and which the bullet, coming from the left oblique, struck endwise; the bullet passed through, the length, of the bag and went on into the wall of the gully. I sprang back and caught up the spade.
"What's up, Jones?" asked Willis.
"I'll report directly, Sergeant."
I dug at least two feet before I found the bullet; it was a long, leaden cylinder, with, a rounded point--not bigger than calibre 45 I guessed. This was no Enfield bullet. I handed it to Willis; he understood.
"Can't be helped," says he; "they know we're here, boys."
The danger had become great; perhaps there was but one Whitworth over there, but the marksman would at once tell the skirmishers where we were posted; then we should be a target for their whole line, and at three hundred yards their Enfields could riddle our sand-bags and make us lie low.
Rap, rap, rap! Three sand-bags were hit, and Holt was scratched on the cheek. The bullets struck the wall behind; one penetrated, the others fell into the ravine--they were Enfield bullets.
Holt's face was bleeding. The men looked gloomy; we had had our fun.
Willis called another council. His speech was to the effect that we had done more damage than we had received, and should receive; that all we had to do was to stay in the ravine until the storm should pass; the rebels would think that we were gone and would cease wasting their ammunition; then we could have more fun.
Holt said bravely that he was not willing to give it up yet; so said Thompson, and so said Freeman.
My vote was given to remain and wait for developments. At this moment retreat could not be considered; we could not reach the edge of the woods under sixty yards; somebody would be struck if not killed; it was doubtful that any could escape sound and whole, for the rebels, if they had any sense, were prepared to see us run out, and would throw a hundred shots at us. If our line could ever again get the upper hand of the rebels, then we could get out easily; if not, we must stay here till night. We had done all that could be done--had done well, and we must not risk loss without a purpose; we must protect ourselves; let the rebels waste their powder--the more they wasted, the better. The only real danger was that the rebels might advance; but even if they did, they could not get at us without coming to blows with our line--the ravine protected our line from their charge. It was our business to stay where we were and to keep a sharp lookout.
So it was ordered by Willis that while the storm was raging we should keep one man on watch, and that the others should stay at the bottom of the ravine. Holt boldly claimed first watch.
The four of us were sitting in the sand; Holt's head was below the level of the field; every now and then he raised his eyes to the porthole. Freeman began, taking off his coat.
"Gittin' warm?" asked Willis.
"I'm the man to show you a trick," said Freeman.
He hung the coat on the iron end of the spade, and tied his hat above on a stick; then he went down the ravine about ten yards, faced us, raised his dummy, and marched quickly toward us. This was the first dummy that the rebels had ever seen march, no doubt; at any rate their whole force was at once busy; the fire rolled from left to right far down the line, yet when Freeman examined his garments he found that neither hat nor coat had been struck.
"You see," said Freeman, "we can all run out when we want to."
Noon had come; after eating, I became exceedingly sleepy; I must make some effort to keep awake.
"Sergeant," I said, "if you say so, I'll go down the gully a little, and see what's there."
"All right, Jones; but don't go far."
I soon reached a turn in the ravine--a turn to the right, toward our line. I went on; this stretch was short; the ravine turned toward the left, getting deeper as it went; again it turned to the left, running for the Warwick, I supposed--certainly running straight toward the rebels. I came back and reported.
"Well," says Willis, "if they come on us, we'll have to run. We must keep two sentinels on post now."
Thompson was posted at the bend.
It was difficult to believe that the rebels would venture up the gully; they could not know how small was our force; if they should march a company up the ravine, the company would be exposed to capture by a sudden rush of our skirmishers. It was probable, however, that a few men would try to sneak up in order to see how many we were; yet even this supposition was not necessary, for the rebels were having everything their own way, and need risk nothing. So I decided in my own mind to be as patient as possible until dark.
The firing on both sides had ceased, except that an occasional Whitworth bullet would come at us, fired at such long range that we could not hear the report; the heads of the rebels were no longer seen. What were they planning? I was uneasy; I wished that we could find a means for communicating with our friends in the rear; if they would open fire again, we might rush out. Yet after all it was best to be quiet until dark.
I relieved Freeman at the porthole; Holt relieved Thompson at the bend. Since eleven o'clock Fort Willis had not fired a shot; our game had been blocked. The notion now came to me that if the rebels wanted us, the way to get us would be to send men up the ravine just before dark, and at the same time for a squad of them to steal through the woods to our left, where they would be ready for us when we should steal out.
"Sergeant!"
"What?"
"Think we'd better get back."
"What's the matter now?"
"Just at dark is the time for the rebels to catch us."
"Fact, by--!" says Willis.
"If you want to get out," said Freeman, the inventor, "I'm here to tell you how to do it."
"Le's have it," says Willis.
"Make a big smoke!"
Why had I not thought of that expedient? Between, us and Holt, down at the bend, there was brush growing on the sides of the ravine. Our knives and the spade were put to use; soon we had a big heap of green boughs and sprigs. It would take work to touch her off, for there was no dry wood; but we managed by finding the remains of cartridge papers and using a free supply of gunpowder. When all was ready, Holt was recalled, and the match was struck.
"Now, men, to your portholes!" says Willis. "We must give 'em a partin' salute."
The flame was long in catching. Every eye was alternately peeping to the front and looking anxiously at the brush heap. At last she caught, and a thin column of black smoke began to ascend.
"Be sharp, now! Them rebs will want to know what we're up to."
A few curious heads could be seen, but no shot was fired at us, or by us at them.
The smoke increased, but, alas! the wind was wrong and blew it away from the woods.
"Hell and Tom Walker!" says Willis.
But heaven--which he had not appealed to--had decreed that Fort Willis should be evacuated under her own auspices. Our attention had been so fixed upon two important specks that the rest of the universe had become a trivial matter. A sudden clap of thunder almost overhead startled the defenders of the redoubt. Without our knowledge a storm had rolled up from the Atlantic; the rain was beginning to fall in big icy-cold drops, already obscuring our vision.
"Fire!" shouted Willis.
The tempest burst in fury, and the gang marched bravely back to the skirmish-line, amidst a hail, not of bullets, but of nature's making.
Early on the morning of the 4th of May loud explosions were heard in the direction of Yorktown, and the heavens glowed with the light of great fires. At sunrise our division got orders to be ready to march, but the morning wore away, and it was almost two o'clock before the long roll beat. At length we moved with the column, already unnerved by long-continued expectation, westward upon the Williamsburg road.
Willis was triumphant. "We got 'em now, boys," says he. "I told you so."
Lawler responded that any weather prophet would get rain if he kept on predicting till the rain came.
The mud was deep and heavy. The roads had been horribly cut up by the retreating rebels and by our cavalry advancing ahead of us.
Late in the afternoon we came to a long halt; a division had come into our road from the left and was now advancing, blocking our way. We rested. About dark our head of column was turned back and we countermarched, and halted, and marched again, and halted again, where, I do not know; but I know that I was thoroughly worn out when orders were given that the men should lie on their arms, but that they should otherwise make themselves as comfortable as they could. Rain was falling, the night was black, comfort was impossible. I suppose I got two or three hours' sleep. At daylight the march was again taken up; in an hour or two we halted and formed line with skirmishers in front; it was still raining.
We marched the length of the regiment by the right flank, through the woods, then fronted and moved forward, with skirmishers deployed in advance. The skirmishers soon became engaged. Bullets flew amongst us. We continued to advance until we reached the edge of the woods; the line had not yet fired a shot.
The rebels had cut down the timber in their front; as soon as we became visible they began throwing shells and grape-shot over the timber at our ranks. We lay down and took the fire and the rain. We lay there for something like two hours; then we moved to the rear,--only our regiment, I think,--fronted again, and marched to the right for perhaps a mile through the woods. Willis said that we were seeking any enemy that might be in the woods; but he aroused no interest; nobody either approved or seemed to doubt Willis's interpretation of the movement; we did not know what the generals were doing with us, and we were tired and sleepy and hungry and wet.
By twelve o'clock we had marched back to our former position near the felled timber. Rain continued to fall, and the hostile batteries to fire upon each other. Wounded men were carried to the rear. I noticed that our company seemed small; perhaps a few had been wounded; certainly many had fallen out of ranks, unable longer to endure.
About the middle of the afternoon we were moved again, this time through the woods to the left. As we marched, we could hear the roar of musketry ahead of us, and straggling men could be seen running in every direction except one. We moved on in line, without skirmishers. The straggling men increased in numbers, and many wounded went past us, the ambulance corps working busily here in the dense wet forest. The yells of the rebels were plainly heard, and all eyes were strained to catch sight of what was already but too well known. Every moment was an hour.
Suddenly from our front came a roar and a crash, and our line staggered to a dead halt, every man firing and loading as fast as he could--firing at a line of smoke ahead of us. Great shouts could be heard in the smoke; occasionally, in some momentary diminution in our own strife, there could be faintly heard the noise of battle to our right, far and near to our right.
Men were falling fast. All at once I heard Willis roar, "Fire to the left, men! fire to the left!" A great turmoil ensued; officers cried, "They are our men!" Willis again, shouted: "Fire on that line, men! They are rebels! They are rebels!" and he succeeded in convincing most of us that he was right. Then the cry rose: "We are flanked!" "Look out!" "Flanked!" "Here they come!" and then the whole crowd of us were running with all our legs. I reached a road that ran across the line of my flight; it was full of everything: troops in good order, stragglers breaking through them, wounded lying down, dead flat on their backs, artillery horses in their traces, ambulances.
So far as we were concerned, the fight was over; fresh troops had relieved us, and the rebels came no farther. It was night, and the battle soon ended on the whole line.
With difficulty I found my regiment and company. We lay in the woods; the rain kept on.
I have understood that the battle of Williamsburg is considered a victory for our side. I must confess that I did not know that we had won it until I was so informed, although I was certainly in the battle. The rebels fought this partial engagement only for the purpose, I think, of securing the retreat of their army and trains; we fought for the purpose of preventing the retreat. I have learned that our right wing had better success than we had on the left; but for all that, the enemy got away unbroken, and his purpose was accomplished. In the days of those early battles, even the falling back of the rebel pickets before a line of our skirmishers was telegraphed to Washington as a victory.
We lay on the wet ground; our sufferings were not small. Willis's remark, that the rebels too were wet, didn't seem to bring much comfort; even his assertion, that they would again retreat and that the morning would find them gone, called forth no enthusiasm. The men were dispirited; they knew very well that they had fought hard and had endured with the stoutness of good soldiers, but they were physically exhausted, and, above all, they felt that somebody had blundered in putting them unnecessarily into an awkward place. I have always been proud that none of our men deserted on the night of the Williamsburg battle.
No fires could be made, Willis and I ate a little and lay down. My gum-blanket was laid on the wet ground, with my blanket on top; this was our bed. Our covering was Willis's blanket and gum-blanket. The night was warm enough, and our covering was needed only as some protection against the rain. I was soon asleep, but awake again as soon. About ten o'clock I felt a hand on my shoulder. Rising, I saw our orderly-sergeant; a man was standing by him. I was ordered to report at General Grover's headquarters. The general had sent an orderly, who could not or would not tell why I was wanted.
General Grover was in the centre of a group of officers, surrounding a dim lantern which, was on the ground at the root of a large tree; horses were tied near by to the branches of trees.
The orderly saluted, pointed to me, and retired a few yards.
The general came toward me; I saluted.
"Your name," said he.
"Private Jones Berwick."
"Your regiment."
"Eleventh."
"Dr. Khayme has spoken of you."
I bowed.
"Are you willing to undertake a hazardous duty?"
"I want to do my duty, General; but I don't hanker after danger," said I.
"A prudent answer," said he; "come here."
He led the way toward the lantern, the group of officers scattering.
"The whole matter is this," said the general, "each brigade must send a man to the front to observe the enemy. Will you go for this brigade?"
"Yes, sir," I said; "I ought to, if you so command."
"There is no compulsion," said he; "a man who objects to going should not be allowed to go."
"My objections, General, are not strong enough, to make me decline."
"Then let us understand each other. Do this for me and you shall lose nothing by it. All proper favours shall be shown you if you do your duty well. Extra duty demands extra privilege."
"Can I see Dr. Khayme?" I asked.
"No, not to-night; he attends the right wing. Now, Berwick, let me show you."
He bent down by the lantern and was about to sit, when an officer stepped before and spread a gum-blanket on the ground, and placed the lantern near the blanket.
"Thanks, Hibbert," said General Grover.
The general took a map from one of his aides, and spread it on the blanket. It was a mere sketch--a very few lines.
"Here is our position," said he, making a mark with a pencil; "you see our line here, running north and south."
"Which is north?" I asked.
"Here, this way. We are in these woods; the rebels are over here, or were there at last accounts. Our picket-line is along this branch, in part. I want you to go through our pickets, and get across the branch, and go on through the woods until you come to this road, which you see running north and south. You need not go across this road. All I want you to do is to observe this road until day."
"Is the road in the woods, General?"
"Well, I don't know, but I think it is. You will have no trouble whatever, unless the rebels have their pickets on this side of the road," said he.
"But in case the rebels are on this side of the road, what shall I do?"
"It may be that their skirmishers are in the road, and their vedettes near the branch; in that case get as near as possible to the road. If they are on this side of the road, but so near the road that you can observe it with eye or ear, why, observe it with as little risk to yourself as possible. If bodies of troops move on the road, you must come back to the picket-line and report, and then return to your post of observation."
"Would it not be well to have an intermediate man between me and our picket-line?"
"A good idea, sir. We'll get the captain of the pickets to supply one."
"And now, General, suppose that the rebel pickets are much this side of the road."
"Then use your discretion, but observe that road this night. Take your own way to do it, but the road must be observed."
"How far do the woods stretch beyond the road, General?"
"If this sketch can be relied on, not more than three hundred yards," said he; "but it will not do to rely on this piece of paper."
"May I not run foul of some man of ours sent out by one of the other brigades, General?"
"Not likely; each, brigade sends in its own front, and you will hardly find that any man will be so enterprising as to try to do our duty for us; still, you must avoid any chance of a collision such as you speak of."
"How shall I get through our own pickets, General?"
"My courier will see you through," said he. "No; I will see you through. I want to see our line again, and I will go with you."
"Suppose the brigade moves while I am at the front, and I can't find you when I get back."
"Then make your report to the picket that relieves ours, and get back to us as soon as you can. Our pickets will tell those that relieve them about you."
"Suppose I find a movement in progress and can follow it," said I.
"Follow it as long as you wish, only be sure to report through the other man. Is everything clear to you now?"
"Yes, General; I think so."
"Then return to your company and get ready; be back in ten minutes."
I was back in ten minutes. I had decided to go entirely unarmed, and I was hoping that the men of the other brigades would have as much consideration for me, as I did not think it very unlikely that I should run against one of them in the darkness. I put my gum-blanket over me, committed my knapsack and other things to Willis's keeping; and was back with the general.
We found that our pickets were not on the branch which the general had shown me on the map, or on any branch. A brief conversation took place between the general and Captain Brown of the picket-line. The captain chose a man, and told him to follow me and to obey my orders.
Then the general put his hand on my shoulder. "Take care of yourself, my man," said he; "but get to that road; be sure that you report any movement on that road." I began to assure him that I would do all that I could, but I found that he had already started back to the brigade.
I asked Captain Brown to warn all his men not to fire on me when I should return. The low call went right and left along the line,--"Two of our men going to the front!"
"Where are your vedettes?" I asked of Captain Brown.
"The line itself is on extreme duty," said he; "the vedettes are only thirty yards in front; we posted the relief not half an hour ago."
I had already observed by the light of General Grover's lantern, which his orderly had discreetly held in reserve some ten paces or more, that the picket-line was a double one, that is to say, two men to every five paces, and that every man was standing in his place, gun in hand,--behind trees the most of them,--and with their faces to the front. There were no picket fires.
"How many vedettes are there? How thick are they?"
"One every twenty yards," said he; "I will relieve them with new men in half an hour, or a little more; an hour is long enough for such duty. The new men will be advised that you are still in front. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Come."
The three of us--Captain Brown leading, I following him, and the detailed man, Allen, coming after--went forward to a vedette. The captain spoke some words to him in a whisper, and then went back to the picket-line. I now observed that Allen had brought his gun. I say observed, for I did not see the gun; my hand happened to touch it. I asked Allen to go back and leave his piece at the picket-line; while he was gone I spoke in whispers to the vedette. He had heard nothing in his front, except that now and then there seemed to come to him, from far away, an indistinct rumble; he had seen nothing in the black night except trees but little blacker. The rain was a thick drizzle.
I warned the vedette to be very careful in case he heard anything in his front, lest he fire on a friend. He said that the vedettes had orders not to fire, but to retire at once on the picket-line in case of a silent advance of the enemy. This peculiar order, which at a later time I heard given again under somewhat similar circumstances, was no doubt a wise one. A secret advance of the enemy's skirmishers would have been precipitated into a charge by the fire of the vedette, whereas his secret retreat to his line would prepare the pickets to surprise the surprisers.
And now, with Allen just behind me, I went forward. The woods were so dense and the night so dark that it was useless to try to see ahead of me. The only thing to do was to feel my way. I supposed that the branch which I was to cross was but a very short distance in front. I had no fear that I should find enemies this side of the branch; the great probability was that their vedettes were posted on the farther bank of the stream. When I had gone not more than thirty yards, I felt that the ground sloped downward before me, and I judged that the branch was very near. I paused. There was not a sound except that made by the fall of heavy drops of water from the leaves of the trees. I strained my eyes, trying to see in front. Allen was but three paces behind me, yet I could not see his form. I stepped back to where he was, and asked in a low whisper if he could see at all.
"Yes," said he, "I can see a little. I can make out where you stand."
I told him that we ought to be now very near a branch, and that the branch ought to make a slight gap in the woods and a little more light. He whispered back that there was, he thought, more light in our front than there had been before. I now tried to discern this new light, and could not at first, but after a little while it did seem to me that just ahead there was a dim gray streak.
I made one step forward--paused--then another step; another, and I felt my foot in the water. The gray streak had widened. I made a step back, and caught Allen by the hand. Then I went forward, holding Allen's hand. But I wanted to speak to Allen, and feared to do so. We went back again, some three steps, until I was out of the water.
Allen was always a little in my rear, even when we were hand-in-hand. He whispered, "It is ten steps wide."
"Can you see across it?"
"I think so. I think the trees are lower over there."
In all my experience as a soldier I think that I never felt myself in a more critical place. The opposite side of the branch was an ideal position for the rebel vedettes. They ought to be there if anywhere in these woods. Still, they, as well as we, might have neglected their opportunity; besides, their line might be bent back here; their vedettes might be on the branch farther to our right, and here might be anywhere in its rear; we did not know where the rebel right rested. Of one thing I felt sure--the rebels did not intend to advance on this night, for in that case they would have had their vedettes, and their pickets also, if possible, on our side of the branch.
The thing had to be done. I must risk crossing the branch. If vedettes were on it, it was just within the possible that I might pass between two of them.
I whispered to Allen that I wanted a stick; he already had one, which he put into my hand. Then I told him to take hold of my coat, lest my foot should slip; the noise of a splash, might have caused utter failure, if not our capture.
We reached the water again. I felt before me. The end of the stick seemed to sink into soft mud.
I made another step forward. I was up to my ankles in mud, up to my knees in water.
I made another step; the water rose to my thighs.
Again a step; the water was no deeper, and I felt no mud under my feet. I thought I had reached the middle.
I paused and listened. I was afraid to speak to Allen. The same monotonous dropping of water--nothing more.
We went forward, and got to the farther bank, which seemed steep. By feeling right and left, I found a foothold. I loosed Allen's hand from my coat, and stood on the bank. Allen was in the water below me.
I looked around, for I could now see a little. I could easily tell that there were no trees over my head. I seemed to be surrounded by a dense, low thicket. What was in this thicket? Likely the rebel vedettes and pickets.
My hand inadvertently came in contact with a stump. I could feel the smooth surfaces left by an axe. The tree itself was lying there, but not entirely cut from its stump. I could feel the splintered middle of the tree, still holding. I at once knew that I was in the midst of felled timber,--on the edge of a slashing or entanglement.
Were the rebel vedettes in this felled timber? Most unlikely, unless there were alleyways open for their retreat. But perhaps the strip of timber was very narrow, and the rebel vedettes were just in rear of it; perhaps it was cut only along the margin of the branch, and in order to impede and expose to hearing any enemy that might succeed in crossing the branch. But, in that case, would not the timber be a protection rather than a hindrance to the enemy advancing or stealing forward? Yes, unless the vedettes were just in rear of this very narrow strip, or unless the rebel intrenchments wore in easy musket range.
These thoughts went through my mind while I was on the bank with Allen below me. I hesitated. Beyond this skirt of felled timber there might be capture, or death, or there might be no danger whatever. I was beginning to hope that there was no vedette or picket-line in these woods.
Whispering to Allen to remain where he was, I crept forward; after having made some ten paces through the entanglement, I paused and listened. There was not a sound. I crept back to Allen, and, giving him my hand, helped him up the bank. Then we both went forward until I supposed we were near the spot to which I had previously advanced. Allen was now signalled to stop, while I crept on again, and again returned to him; then both went forward as before. On this second stage of our approach we passed through to the farther side of the felled timber.
We were now on the edge of woods still standing. I feared every moment lest we should be detected by some vedette. The enemy's works ought to be very near; neither spoke to the other; abatis without intrenchments was not to be thought of. Yet I was hoping to find the intrenchments deserted.
The rain had almost entirely ceased. The night was growing. We had used up at least an hour's time, and had made an advance of less than two hundred yards.
I moved forward again--and back--alternately alone and with Allen forward--until at length I reached a road running across my line of progress.
After listening again intently and hearing nothing, I got down on my hands and knees and crawled across the road. I could tell with my hands that the road was cut up with ruts, and what I supposed were horses' tracks, but it was impossible for me to know which way the tracks headed.
Beyond the road the woods continued; I crawled on for thirty or forty yards, and found nothing.
Then I returned to Allen, and speaking low I asked him, "What do you think that skirt of felled timber means?"
"It means breastworks over there in the woods," said he.
"But I have been at least thirty yards beyond the road and there is nothing. I am beginning to believe that there is not a rebel left in these woods."
"Then," said he, "the timber was cut down with the intention of fortifying, and afterward the intention was abandoned."
"Or else it was cut down, as a blind," said I; "likely enough its purpose was merely to keep troops on this road from being seen."
"Still," said he, "they may be back farther in the woods."
I did not believe it. If this felled timber defended the approach to a rebel line, we were near enough to the line to hear many noises. The only thing I now feared was some scouting party.
It was necessary to run some risk; even if we should be fired upon, I decided that we must learn which way the movement on the road had been. I had Allen take off his cap, and while I lighted a match near the ground, he held his cap over it, and we both looked with all our eyes, moving the match back and forth over the road. The tracks all headed to our right.
Then we both stepped quickly to the farther side of the road.
"Allen," said I, "you must stay here till I return."
"Where are you going?"
"Through the woods."
"How long will you be gone?"
"A very short time. If I am not back in fifteen minutes, you must return to the pickets and report that there has already been a considerable movement on the road, and that no enemy is here. I feel certain that there are no rebels in these woods. They were here, but they have gone. I want to get to the open ground and see what is there; it will not take long."
"I'm afraid that you can't see to make your way back to this spot," said he.
"I may be compelled to whistle for you," said I; "if there is nobody in these woods, there is no danger in my whistling."
"Better take me with you," said Allen; "two pairs of eyes are better than one."
"That is true," I replied, "but some accident might happen to both of us out there, and neither of us be able to report to General Grover. Stay where you are."
I tried to go forward in a straight line so that I should be able to turn square about and make my way back to Allen. The woods became more open as I went. The rain had ceased, and I could see much better. I reached the edge of the woods, and looked out. A few stars were shining between broken clouds near the horizon in front of me--west, I thought. Toward the north, and northwest the clouds reflected some distant light, and had a reddish glow. I could distinctly hear the sounds of great movements, the rumblings of wagon, trains or artillery. The ground seemed open before me for a long distance.
I went rapidly back toward Allen, whistling. He came to meet me.
"Now, Allen," said I, "your part of this business is about over. Go back to Captain Brown and ask him to report at once to General Grover that the road shows clearly that the rebels have already moved along it to their left, our right; and that there is nobody here, all gone; gone to our right, their left, and that I have been entirely through the woods, and have found nothing, but that to the northwest there are the sounds of great movements, and that I am going to see if I cannot find out more."
"Then what am I to do after that?" he asked.
"Nothing; remain with your company. I shall not need you, for I doubt if I get back before day, and there is nothing for me to fear in this place."
Allen started one way and I another. It was now about two o'clock, I thought; the sky was almost clear, and I could see about me. I passed rapidly through the woods again and into the open ground, climbing a rail fence, and went up a very gentle slope that rose before me, an "old field," or abandoned farm, which was scattered over here and there with clumps of stunted growth. Once I paused in terror. A bush had taken, to my fancy, the form of a man. The illusion lasted but for a moment.
When I had reached the highest part of this undulation, I could see many lights--some of them in motion, but most of them stationary. The sounds of a moving army were distinct; I could hear shouts, like those of teamsters, and once I thought I could catch the command to close up.
I went on, down a gentle descent, and into a ravine which was difficult to cross, and up the rise beyond. Between me and the red glare I could distinguish objects, and I knew that if there were rebels in line before me, I should be able to see them before they could see me, so I went on without great fear, and crept to the top of this second swell of the ground.
Here there could be no doubt that the rebels were retreating. The road was full of them not four hundred yards from me. Fires were burning on both sides of the road; men and wagons were hurrying westward. Almost in front of me was a cluster of houses, which I took to be Williamsburg; fires were burning in the streets; a great throng was passing on west between the fires and between the houses. I had little doubt that I could mingle, without great danger, with the rebels, seeing that my gum-blanket would hide my uniform, and was tempted to do so; the thought was rejected, however; time was lacking; it would soon be day; I knew enough already; I could not hope to learn from the rebels much more than I now knew, and every step farther away from our lines would doubly delay my report. So I turned my back upon Williamsburg and hurried toward our pickets.
When I reached the road again, day was breaking. A vedette had been advanced to the branch by Captain Brown. I hurried on and made my report to General Grover. He at once called a courier, who mounted and rode off in haste.
On the morning of the 6th, the happiest man in the line was Willis. Everybody was glad that the enemy had retired; but Willis was bubbling over with the joy of foresight fulfilled. He rode a high horse; the rebels would make no further stand until they reached Richmond; he doubted if they would attempt to defend Richmond, even. His spirits were contagious; he did good although he was ludicrous. What would Dr. Khayme have said of Willis's influence? I supposed that the Doctor would have used the sergeant as an illustration of his doctrine that there is nothing unnecessary or false; certainly Willis encouraged us.
The weather was better and the day's work not hard. We moved but a short distance, and bivouacked.
About noon I was aroused from sleep by an order to report to Colonel Blaisdell. I had no notion, of what was wanted of me. I had never before been individually in his presence. I wondered what it meant, and hastened to his headquarters.
I saluted; the colonel returned the salute.
"You are Private Berwick?" he said.
"Yes, Colonel."
"What have you been doing?"
"In what respect, Colonel?"
"You have been absent from your company." His voice was gruff, but his eye and mouth belied his voice.
"Here," said he; "take this and read it."
I read the following: "Private Jones Berwick, Company D, Eleventh Massachusetts Volunteers, is relieved, until further orders, from duty with his company, and will hold himself ready for special service when ordered."
This order was signed by Colonel Blaisdell, and approved by General Grover.
JONES ON THE BLACK HORSE
At about three o'clock in the afternoon of this 6th of May, I was again aroused from sleep, this time by an order to report to the adjutant of the Eleventh. He informed me that he was aware of General Grover's order relieving me from regular duty--in fact had himself written the order by command of Colonel Blaisdell, who had been asked to issue it by our brigade commander. The adjutant also told me that I should still get rations through Company D, but that I was free to go and come when not on special duty, and that I was expected to keep him advised of my goings, so that I could be found when wanted. "For the rest," said he, "you will do much as you wish, especially when the brigade is in reserve, as it is to-day, and as it is likely to be for a good many days to come. Your services to be required at long intervals will make up, it is hoped, for your exemption from regular duty."
I thanked him and retired. I had learned that Dr. Khayme was on the right, and at once set out to find him, traversing much of the battlefield of the preceding day. When I reached the ground over which Hancock's troops had fought, it became evident that the rebels had here suffered severely; their dead were yet numerous in places, although details of men had long been busy in burying the slain of both armies.
At last I found Dr. Khayme's tent, after having been directed wrong more than once. No one was there except a white servant; he told me that the Doctor, who was now at the field hospital, had been busy the whole of the preceding day and night in relieving the wounded; that he had taken no sleep at all. "I don't see how the Doctor stands what he goes through," said the man. "Yesterday the whole day long he was in the thick of it; he was in as great danger as the troops were; lots more than some of 'em. He said that the rebels wouldn't try to hit him; but for my part I wouldn't trust one of 'em as far as I could fling a bull by the tail; and him a tendin' to 'em just like they was our own men."
This was not the first I had heard of the Doctor's disregard of danger. At Bull Run he was known to follow a charge and assist the wounded as they fell. I supposed that there was no use expostulating with a man who so firmly believed in the peculiar doctrines of his philosophy.
About nightfall he came into the tent, rubbing his hands.
"Good evening, Jones. I expected to see you here. I suppose you think you are going to stay with me several days?"
"Why do you suppose so, Doctor?"
"Oh, by this and that. Your brigade will have nothing to do this side of the Chickahominy."
"I don't know anything about the Chickahominy," I replied.
"You will know."
"The brigade can be easy for some time, then?"
"Any man can be easy for some time if he has been ordered on special duty not to be demanded for some time."
"You know about my case?"
"Yes."
Dr. Khayme looked surprisingly fresh after having undergone such arduous labours; indeed, this little man's physical endurance and his mental power were to me matters for astonishment equally great.
"Doctor," I said, "I hear you have been working very hard. You need rest and sleep."
"Well," said he, "when I need rest I rest; when I need sleep I sleep; just now I want supper."
After we had eaten he filled his pipe, and settled himself on a camp-stool. He got more comfort out of a camp-stool than any other man in the world. As I saw him sitting there, puffing slowly, his eyes filled with intelligent pleasure, his impassive features in perfect repose, I thought he looked the picture of contentment.
I asked about Lydia.
"Lydia will not rejoin me yet," said, he; "she wishes to be with me, but I prefer that she should remain in the hospital at Hampton until the army is concentrated. You will have some marching to do before you have any more fighting, and I don't think I'll send for her yet."
"I suppose she can do as much good where she is," I said.
"Yes, and save herself the worry of frequent marches. She can come to me when things are settled. However, I am not sure that we shall not demand her services here. But now tell me all about your last night's experience."
When I had ended my narration, he said, "You will hereafter be called on to do more of such work."
"I suppose so," said I.
"Do you like it?"
"No, Doctor, I do not, and I am surprised that I do not. Yet, I shall not object if I can accomplish anything."
"You have accomplished something each time that you have been sent out. You have at least furnished strong corroborative evidence, sufficiently strong to induce action on the part of your generals."
"Doctor, I wish you would rest and sleep."
"Are you sleepy?"
"No; I slept all the morning, and had another nap in the afternoon."
"Well, let us talk awhile. The animals can rest; speech is given unto man alone. First, I say that by holding to your programme of last night you will incur little risk."
"Tell me what you mean by holding to my programme, Doctor."
"And you will accomplish more," he added meditatively. "Yes; you will be in less danger, and you will accomplish more."
"I should be glad to be in less danger, as well as to do more," said I.
"You should always do such work unarmed."
"You are right, Doctor; entirely right. Arms are encumbrances only, and a man might easily be tempted to fire when he ought to be silent."
"My reasons are a little different from yours," said the Doctor; "you will be safer if you are unarmed, and other people's lives will be safer from you."
"Why should I not also wear Confederate uniform?"
"And be a spy, Jones?"
"Hardly that, Doctor; merely a scout near the enemy's lines, not in them."
"I cannot vote for that yet," said the Doctor.
The Doctor's servant entered, bringing a written message addressed:--
PRIVATE BERWICK,
On detached service,
At Sanitary Camp,
Rear of General Hancock's division.
"Who gave you this?" I asked.
"A man has just come with it--a horseman--two horsemen; no, a horseman with two horses."
"Is he waiting?"
"Yes, sir."
I tore open the envelope. The Doctor was showing no curiosity; the thought went through my mind that he already knew or suspected.
There were three papers,--a sketch, a sort of passport which contained only the countersigns for the past five days, and an order from General Hooker.
The order itself gave me no information of the reasons which had influenced General Hooker to choose me for the work required; I could merely assume that General Grover had nominated me. I read the order thoroughly three times, learned by heart the countersigns, impressed the map on my mind, and then destroyed the three papers in accordance with an express injunction comprised in the order itself. This mental work took some minutes, during which the Doctor sat impassive.
"Doctor, I must go."
"Well, Jones, we can finish, our talk when you return. I suppose you are on secret service."
"Yes, Doctor,"
"Can I help in any way?"
"Please let me have that gray suit."
He brought it himself, not wishing his servant to see it.
"Anything else, Jones?"
"Yes, sir; I shall need food."
"How will you carry it?"
"In my pockets. Bread will do."
"I think I have a better thing," said he; "I have provided that you shall not starve again, as you did on the Warwick."
He produced a wide leathern belt, made into one long bag, or pocket; this he filled with small hard biscuits; it was just what I wanted.
"Doctor, you are the most extraordinary man in this army."
"I am not in this army," he said.
The belt was put on beneath my waistcoat.
"I'll leave my gun and everything with you, Doctor; I hope to get back in two or three days."
"Very well, Jones. God bless you, boy," he said, and I was gone.
Before the tent I found "the horseman with two horses."
"Does General Hooker expect a written reply?"
"No, sir; I suppose not."
"Then you may report that you have delivered your message and that I begin work at once."
"Yes, sir."
I took the led horse and mounted. The man used his spurs and rode toward the east.
My orders required me to go west and northwest. I was to communicate with General Franklin, whose division on this day ought to have landed on the south bank of the Pamunkey below White House for the purpose of cutting off the Confederates' retreat. The earliest possible delivery of my message was strenuously required, my orders even going so far as to include reasons for despatch. The retreating enemy were almost between us and Franklin, and he must be notified to attack and delay them at every hazard, and must be informed if possible by what road he should advance in order to cut off their retreat; it was added that, upon landing, General Franklin would not know of the situation of the rebel army, and would depend upon information being brought to him by some one of the messengers sent him on this night.
My ride was to be a ride of twenty-five miles or more, judging from the map. Our outposts were perhaps six miles ahead; I made the six miles in less than three-quarters of an hour. With the outposts I had no trouble.
"Give me the countersign for last Sunday," said the officer.
"Another man's ahead of you," he said, when I had responded.
"Who is he?"
"Don't know. Horse black."
"Going fast?"
"Goin' like hell!" said he; then added, "and goin' to hell, too, if he don't mind how he rides."
It was now after nine o'clock, and I had nineteen or twenty miles ahead of me. As I had ten hours, I considered that circumspection was worth more than haste--let the black horse go on.
"Where are the rebels?"
"A mile in front when dark came."
"Infantry?"
"Couldn't say; they are infantry or dismounted cavalry--don't know which."
"Please describe their position."
"Don't know a thing except that they could be seen drawn up across the road--a mile out there," pointing.
"In the woods?"
"Yes."
"Captain--"
"No, only lieutenant."
"Beg pardon, sir; won't you be so good as to send a man with me to the point from which the rebels could be seen at dark?"
"Yes; I'll do that much for you. Here, Johnson!"
As Johnson and I rode forward, I tried to get all he knew--but he knew nothing; he had no idea whether the enemy were cavalry or infantry, whether they had retired or were yet in position, or how many they were. The moon was almost overhead; the sandy road muffled the sounds of the horses' hoofs; no noise came from front or rear. The way was through the woods; in little more than half a mile open ground was seen ahead. Johnson stopped; so did I.
"They are on the other side of the field," said he,
"How wide is the field?"
"A quarter, I guess."
"What was planted in the field last year?"
"Corn."
"Stalks still standing?"
"Yes, but they are very small."
"Does the road run between fences?"
"Yes."
"How far does the field extend to our right?"
"Only a short distance--a few hundred yards."
"And to our left?"
"Farther--about a half a mile, maybe."
"Any houses?"
"Yes, on the other side, where the rebels were."
"A farmhouse?"
"Yes, and other buildings--stables and the like."
"Which side of the road?"
"The left."
Johnson could answer no further questions; I let him go.
How had the black horse passed on? Delay might mean my arrival at Franklin's position later than that of the black horse, or it might mean success. If the rebels had abandoned this position at nightfall, I should be wasting time here by taking precautions; if they were yet yonder in the woods on the other side of the field, they would capture me if I rode on. Which course should I take--the safe course, or the possible speedy course? I took the safe course. Dismounting I tied my horse to a swinging limb, and crept forward on the right of the right-hand fence, until I reached the woods beyond the field. I looked over the fence into the road. There was no enemy visible. The house at the west was without lights, and there was no noise of barking dogs or of anything else; clearly the rebels had moved, and by my prudence the black horse had gained further upon me. I got into the road and ran back to my horse, mounted hurriedly and rode forward at a gallop for half a mile; then I slowed to a walk. How far had the rebels gone? Might I not expect a challenge at any moment? I must not let a first disappointment control my reason. The roads were bad; the retreat of the rebels was necessarily slow, as they had many wagon trains to protect. The road must be forsaken at the first path that would lead me to the right; any bridle-path would lead me somewhere. The night was clear, and the stars would guide me until I should reach some better ground. The sketch furnished me gave me only the main road, with the branch roads marked down for very short distances. I would take one of the branch roads leading to the right; there must be roads leading up the York; all the country is interlaced with roads small and large. I would risk it; better do that than risk falling into the enemy's hands.
I was thus cogitating when a sound reached me. I thought I could distinguish a horse's footfall. I stopped--the sound was louder--coming and coming fast. I dismounted and led my horse into the woods a few yards and covered his mouth with my hands. Still the sounds reached me--the constant cadence of a galloping horse, yet coming from far. Who could be riding fast this night? Who could be riding south this night? The rebels were going north; no rebel horseman would ride south to-night.
The sounds increased now rapidly, and soon a single horse dashed by; I could not see the rider for the boughs of the trees, but I saw a black horse going south.
Was this the messenger who had outstripped me at the start? I could not know, but the horse was black. Why not brown? How could I be sure that in the moonlight I could tell black from brown, or black from bay? I could not answer, yet I felt confidence in my first impression. The lieutenant had said the man's horse was black. How did the lieutenant know? Had he seen the horse by day? Had he brought a light? The horse must be very black. To satisfy my mind I led my horse into the road and slipped the bridle round his foreleg; then retired a few yards and looked at him--he had not the colour of the black horse; he was a deep bay.
Why was the black horse returning? Doubtless the enemy had been found far up the road, and the messenger could not get through them. Who else would be riding fast down this road? If the rider were a rebel, he would ride slow. Our men would ride fast toward our own lines; this rider was one of ours. Who was he? He was the messenger on the black horse. Why should he ride so fast to the rear? He was seeking a new road; perhaps he knew of another road, and was hurrying now because he had already lost time and his new road would be longer and would make him lose more.
Yet I went on up the road. I had heard the galloping of the black horse far off, and I knew that I could go half a mile before I should encounter the enemy. I was ahead of the black horse.
After riding five minutes slowly on, I came to a small field on the right of the road; in the field was a cabin. I paused, and considered. The cabin, no doubt, was deserted; but if it were occupied, what should I fear? I was in citizen's dress. If any one was now in the cabin, I might get information; if it was deserted, I could explore the ground about it, for I hoped that some path connected this place with other fields and perhaps other roads to the north. I dismounted and approached the door and knocked. There was no response. I pushed the door, and it opened; the place had been vacated. I searched the grounds; there was a well in the back yard, and I lost the hope that I should find a path leading to a spring, and perhaps beyond. I diligently and painfully continued my search, and at length was rewarded by seeing a stile in the back fence. I went back and mounted, and rode round the little field to the stile, and took the path leading from it due north. I reached the woods, and was compelled to dismount, for the branches of the trees overhung the path and constantly barred my way. Leading my horse, I continued on and came to a larger field where, at the fence, the path connected with, a narrow plantation road which I knew, from the ruts, wagons had used. I went to the right, no longer dismounted, and going at a fast trot. My road was running in a northeast course, but soon the corner of the field was reached, and then it branched, one branch going to the north, the other continuing northeast Which should I take? I could not hesitate; I rode north, and kept on pursuing this narrow road for nearly a mile, I supposed. Where I was I did not know, but I felt sure that I was flanking the rebels who had stopped the black horse. I considered the plan of trying now to get back into the main road again, but rejected the thought, for no doubt Johnston's army was stretched along this road for many miles; no doubt it was only the rear-guard picket that had turned back my unknown friend who had preceded me. I would keep on, and I did keep on, getting almost lost sometimes, passing farms and woods and streams, forsaking one path for a worse one, if the latter favoured my course, until at last, after great anxiety, and fatigue of body and mind, I reached a wide road running northwest. I had come, I supposed, four or five miles from the stile.
Now I no longer feared the rebel army. That was at my left in the road to Richmond. This road I was on led up the York. The map was worthless now. Of course, I might run foul of scouts and flying parties; those people I must watch for.
I supposed it was one o'clock, and that I yet had fifteen miles to go, for I had made my route much longer than the main road; but I counted that I had gained greatly, for I was in comparative safety, and had five hours yet. The road ahead I knew nothing about, but it was running in the correct course for Eltham's Landing high up on the river.
Soon I came to a fork. Which branch should I take? If I should take the right, it was chance for chance that I should go straight off to the York, and I wanted to go up the York; if I should take the left, it was chance for chance that I should ride straight to the enemy on the Richmond road.
I took the left. To go to the river meant almost the loss of hope thereafter. I would go toward the enemy for a little distance, but would take the first bridle-path to the right, some road or bridle-path branching out of this, and running up the river. But my progress became exceedingly slow, for I feared always to miss seeing some blind road leading to the right, and my carefulness again cost me a little time, perhaps, for I found a path, and took it, going with great caution for a furlong, to find that it entered a larger road. If I had not taken this path, I should have soon reached this good road at its junction, and time would have been saved by increased speed; yet I did not blame myself, and went on with renewed hope and faster, for although the moon was getting far down the sky, my road was good and was running straight toward my end.
But at length, as I was going over a sandy stretch, I heard hoof-beats behind me, and the sound grew, and I knew that some night rider was following fast. What is he? A rebel or a Federal? Loud ring the strokes of the horse's irons and louder behind me; I must run or I must slip aside.
I chose to let him pass. To be pursued would have been to throw up the game; all then would have been lost. I left the road and hid in the shadowy woods. On came the rider, and as the thundering hoofs hit the road within ten paces of my stand, I saw again the black horse belly to the ground in the moonlight.
Almost at once I started in pursuit. I would keep this man before me; if he should run upon rebels, the alarm would reach me; so long as he should be in my front, safety for me was at the front and danger elsewhere. I pursued, keeping within sight where the road stretches were long, going slowly where the ground was hard, lest the noise of my approach should be heard. Yet I had no difficulty; the courier was straining every nerve to reach his destination, and regarded not his rear. He crossed roads in haste, and by this I knew that the road was to him familiar; he paused never, but kept his horse at an even gallop through forest and through field, while I followed by jerks, making my horse run at times, and again, fearing I was too near, bringing him back to slower speed. For miles I followed the black horse.
But now I saw that the night was further spent than I had supposed; light was coming behind me, and the moon was low in the west. How far to the end? The black horse is going more slowly; he has gone many weary miles more than mine has gone; his rider is urging him to the utmost; I can see him dig his spurs again and again into the sides of the noble beast, and see him strike, and I see him turn where the road turns ahead of me, and I ride faster to recover him; and now I see black smoke rising at my right hand, and I hear the whistle of the Union steam vessels, and I almost cry for joy, and at the turning of the road my horse rears and almost throws me to the ground, and I see the black horse lying dead, and I spur my horse to pass, and give a cry of terror as a man springs from the left, with carbine presented, and shouts, "Your horse! your horse! Dismount at once, or I'll blow your brains out!"
For the rider of the black horse was a Confederate!
Shall I ever forget that moment of dismay and anguish? Even as I write the thrill of horror returns, and I see a picture of the past:--the daybreak; a lonely road in the forest; two men and two horses, each pair as unlike as life and death, for one's horse was dead and the other man was about to die. Had I been so utterly foolish! Why had I conceived absolutely that this rider was a Federal? How could a Federal know the road so well that he had gone over it at full speed, never hesitating, never deflecting into a wrong course? The instant before, I had been in heaven, for I had known my safe destination was at hand; now, I felt that my end had come to me, for my terror was for myself and not for a lost mission, and I cannot remember that in that smallest second of time any other hope was in me but that of riding this man down and reaching our troops with a mortal bullet in my body.
In a second the world may be changed--in a second the world was changed. I saw my captor's gun drop from his hands; I saw his hands go up. I looked round; in the road behind me--blessed sight--were two Union soldiers with their muskets levelled at the man in gray.
"Take me at once to General Franklin."
Again I was thunderstruck--two voices had shouted the same words!
The revulsion turned me stomach-sick; the rider of the black horse was a Federal in disguise!
General Franklin advanced, and met the enemy advancing. For no error on my part, my mission was a failure.
"How could you know the road so well for the last ten miles of it?" I asked of Jones, the rider of the black horse.
"That horse was going home!"
"A horse captured from the rebels?"
"No; impressed only yesterday from a farmer near the landing. You see he had already made that road and was not in the best condition to make it again so soon; then I had to turn about more than once. I suppose that horse must have made nearly a hundred miles in twenty-four hours."
Jones was of Porter's escort, and had on this occasion served as General Porter's messenger.
On the next day, the 8th, I returned to the Sanitary Camp.
It would have been quite impossible for me to analyze my feeling for Dr. Khayme. His affection for me was unconcealed, and I was sure that no other man was received as his companion--not that he was distant, but that he was not approached. By nature I am affectionate, but at that time my emotions were severely and almost continually repressed by my will, because of a condition of nervous sensitiveness in regard to the possibility of an exposure of my peculiarity, so that I often wondered whether the Doctor fully understood the love and reverence I bore him.
On the morning following the day last spoken of--that is to say, on the morning of May 9th--Dr. Khayme rode off to the old William and Mary College, now become a hospital, leaving me to my devices, as he said, for some hours. I was sitting on a camp-stool in the open air, busily engaged in cleaning my gun and accoutrements, when I saw a man coming toward me. It was Willis.
"Where is the Doctor?" he asked.
"Gone to the hospital; want to see him?"
"That depends."
"He will be back in an hour or two. Boys all right?" I brought out a camp-stool; Willis remained standing.
"Oh, yes; what's left of 'em. Say, Berwick, what's this I hear about your being detailed for special work?"
"So," said I.
"What in the name o' God will you have to do?"
Willis's tone was not so friendly as I had known it to be; besides, I had observed that he called me Berwick rather than Jones. His attitude chilled me. I did not wish to talk to him about myself. We talk about personal matters to personal friends. I suppose, too, that I am peculiar in such things; at any rate, so great was my distaste to talking now with Willis on the subject in question that I did not succeed in hiding my feeling.
"Oh," says he, "you needn't say it if you don't want to."
"I feel," said I, "as though I should be speaking of personal matters, perhaps too personal."
"Well, I don't want to force myself on anybody," said he; then he asked, "How long are you going to stay with Dr. Khayme?"
It flashed upon me in an instant that Willis was jealous,--not of the little distinction that had been shown me,--but in regard to Lydia, and I felt a great desire to relieve him of any fear of my being or becoming his rival. Yet I did not see how I could introduce a subject so delicate. In order to gain time, I replied: "Well, I don't know exactly; I am subject to orders from brigade headquarters. If no orders come, I shall stay here a day or two; if we march, I suppose I shall march with the company, unless the division is in the rear."
"If the division marches and Dr. Khayme remains here, what will you do?" he asked.
This was increasing, I thought; to encourage him to proceed, I asked, "Why do you wish to know?"
"Because," said he, hesitatingly, "because I think you ought to show your hand."
"Please tell me exactly what you mean by that," said I.
"You know very well what I mean," he replied.
"Let us have no guesswork," said I; "if you want to say anything, this is a good time for saying it."
"Well, then, I will," said he; "you know that I like Miss Lydia."
"Well?"
"And I thought you were my friend."
"I am your friend."
"Then why do you get into my way?"
"If I am in your way, it is more than I know," said I; "what would you have me to do?"
"If you are my friend, you will keep out of my way."
"Do you mean to say that I ought not to visit the Doctor?"
"If you visit the Doctor, you ought to make it plain to him why you visit him."
"Sergeant," said I; "Dr. Khayme knows very well why I visit him. I have no idea that he considers me a bidder for his daughter."
"Well; you may be right, and then again, you may be wrong."
"And you would have me renounce Dr. Khayme's society in order to favour your hopes?"
"I did not say that. You are perfectly welcome to Dr. Khayme's company; but I do think that you ought not to let him believe that you want Miss Lydia."
"Shall I tell him that you say that?"
"I can paddle my own canoe; you are not my mouthpiece," he replied angrily.
"Then would you have me tell him that I do not want Miss Lydia?"
"Tell him what you like, or keep silent if you like; all I've got to say is that if you are my friend you will not stand in my way."
"It seems to me, Sergeant," said I, "that you are forcing me into a very delicate position. For me to go to Dr. Khayme and explain to him that my attachment to him is not a piece of hypocrisy played by me in order to win his daughter, would not be satisfactory to the Doctor or to me, or even to Miss Khayme."
"Why not to her?" he asked abruptly.
"Because my explanation could not be made except upon my assumption that she supposes me a suitor; it would amount to my saying, 'I don't want you,' and more than that, as you can easily see. I decline to put myself into such a position. I prefer to assume that she does not regard me as a suitor, and that the Doctor receives me only as an old pupil. I beg you to stay here until the Doctor comes, and talk to him yourself. I can promise you one thing: I shall not hinder you; I'll give you a clear field."
"Do you mean to say that you will give me a clear field with Miss Lydia?"
"Not exactly that, but very nearly. You have no right to expect me to say to anybody that Miss Lydia does not attract me, and it would be silly, presumptuous, conceited in me to yield what I have not. I can tell you this: I have not spoken a word to Miss Lydia that I would not speak to any woman, or to any man for that matter, and I can say that I have not one degree of claim upon her."
"Then you will keep out of my way?"
"I repeat that I am not in your way. If I should say that I will keep out of your way, I would imply what is not true; the young lady is absolutely free so far as I am concerned."
At this point the Doctor came up. He shook hands with Willis and went into his tent. I urged Willis to follow, but he would not. I offered to lead the conversation into the matter in which he was so greatly interested, but he would not consent.
The Doctor reappeared. "Lydia will be here to-night," he said.
"You surprise me, Doctor."
"Yes; but I am now pretty sure that we shall be here for a week to come, and we shall not move our camp before the rear division moves. Lydia will find enough to do here."
Willis soon took his leave. I accompanied him for a short distance; on parting with him I told him that he might expect to see me again at night.
"What!" said he; "you are going to leave the Doctor?"
"Yes," I replied; "expect me to-night."
Willis looked puzzled; he did not know what to say, and said nothing.
When I entered the Doctor's tent, I found him busily writing. He looked up, then went on with his work. Presently, still continuing to write, he said, "So Willis is angry."
"Why do you say so, Doctor?"
"Anybody could have seen it in his manner," said he.
I tried to evade. "He was out of sorts," said I.
"What does 'out of sorts' mean?" asked the Doctor. Then, before I could reply, he continued: "I have often thought of that expression; it is a good one; it means to say gloomy, depressed, mentally unwell, physically ill perhaps. Yes, Willis is out of sorts. Out of sorts means mixed, unclassified, unassorted, having one's functions disordered. One who cannot separate his functions distinctly is unwell and, necessarily, miserable. Willis showed signs of dementia; his brain is not acting right. I think I can cure him."
I said nothing. In the Doctor's tone there was not a shade of sarcasm.
He continued: "Perfect sanity would be impossible to predicate of any individual; doubtless there are perfectly sane persons, that is, sane at times, but to find them would be like finding the traditional needle. I suppose our good friend Willis would rank higher than the average, after all is said."
"Willis is a good soldier," said I, "and a good sergeant."
"Yes, no doubt he is; he ought to know that he is just the man for a soldier and a sergeant, and be content."
Now, of course, I knew that Dr. Khayme, by his clear knowledge of nature, not to say more, was able to read Willis; but up to this time I had not suspected that Willis's hopes in regard to Lydia had alarmed or offended my learned friend; so I continued to beat round the subject.
"I cannot see," said I, "why Willis might not aspire to a commission. If the war continues, there will be many chances for promotion."
"The war will continue," he said, "and Willis may win a commission. The difference between a lieutenant and a sergeant is greater in pay than in qualification; in fact, a good orderly-sergeant is a rarer man than a good captain. Let Willis have his commission. Let that be his ambition, if he persists in murdering people."
The Doctor was yet writing busily. I wondered whether his words were intended as a hint for me to speak to Willis; of course I could do nothing of the kind. I felt that this whole affair was very delicate. Willis had gone so far as to make me infer that he was very much afraid of me: why? Could it be possible that he saw more than I could see? No, that was a suggestion of mere vanity; he simply dreaded Dr. Khayme's well-known partiality for me; he feared, not me, but the Doctor. I was uneasy. I examined myself; I thought of my past conduct in regard to Lydia, and found nothing to condemn. I had been rather more distant, I thought, than was necessary. I must preserve this distance.
"Doctor," said I, "good-by till to-morrow; I shall stay with the company to-night."
He looked up. "You will see Willis?"
"Yes, sir; I suppose so."
"You might say to him, if you think well, that I thought he left us rather abruptly to-day, and that I don't think he is very well."
"I hope to see you again to-morrow, Doctor."
"Very well, my boy; good-by till to-morrow; you will find me here by ten o'clock."
When I reached the company I did not see Willis; he was off on duty somewhere. On the next morning, however, he came in, and everything passed in the friendliest way possible, at first. Evidently he was pleased with me for absenting myself from Lydia. But he soon learned that I was to return to the Sanitary Camp, and his countenance changed at once.
"What am I to think of you?" he asked.
"I trust you will think well of me," I replied; "I am doing you no wrong. You are not well. The Doctor noticed it."
"He said that I was not well?"
"Yes."
"Well, he is wrong for once; I am as well as I ever was in my life."
"He said you left very suddenly yesterday."
"I suppose I did leave suddenly; but I saw no reason to remain longer."
"Willis," said I, "let us talk seriously. Why do you not speak to Miss Lydia and her father? Why not end this matter one way or the other?"
"I haven't seen Miss Lydia since you left us in February," said he; "how can I speak to her?"
"But you can speak to Dr. Khayme."
"Yes, I could speak to Dr. Khayme, but I don't consider him the one to speak to first, and to tell you the truth I'm afraid of it. It's got to be done, but I feel that I have no chance; that's what's hurting me."
"Then I'd have it over with, as soon as possible," said I.
"That's easier said than done; but I intend to have it over; it's doing me no good. I wish I'd never seen her."
"Why don't you write?"
"I've thought of that, but I concluded I wouldn't. It looked cowardly not to face the music."
"My dear fellow," said I, "there is no cowardice in it at all. You ought to do it, or else bury the whole thing, and I don't suppose you can do that."
"No, I can't do that; if I don't see her shortly, I shall write."
I was very glad to hear this. From what he had just said, coupled with my knowledge of the Doctor and of Lydia, I did not think his chance worth a penny, and I felt certain that the best thing for him to do was to bring matters to a conclusion. He would recover sooner.
At ten o'clock I was with Dr. Khayme. He told me that Lydia had arrived in the night, and that he had just accompanied her to the hospital.
"And how is our friend Willis to-day?" he asked; "is he a little less out of sorts?"
"He is friendly to-day, Doctor."
"Did you tell him that I remarked about his abrupt manner?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. I now I want to talk to you about your future work, Jones. I have thought of your suggestion that you wear Confederate uniform, while scouting."
"And you do not oppose it?"
"Decide for yourself. I cannot conscientiously take part in war; all I can do is to endeavour to modify its evil, and try to turn it to good."
The Doctor talked long and deeply upon these matters, and ended by saying that he would get me Confederate clothing from some wounded prisoner. Then he began a discussion of the principles which the respective sections were fighting for.
"Doctor," said I; "awhile ago, when I was urging that a scout would be of greater service to his cause if he disguised himself, as my friend Jones does, you seemed to doubt my assertion that the best thing for the rebels was their quick defeat."
"I remember it."
"Please tell me what you have in mind."
"It is this, Jones: America must be united, or else dis-severed. I believe in the world-idea; although I condemn this war, I believe in the Union. The difference between us is, that I do not believe and you do believe that the way to preserve the Union is going to war. But war has come. Now, since it has come, I think I can see that an easy defeat of the Southern armies will not bring about a wholesome reunion. For the people of the two sections to live in harmony, there must be mutual respect, and there must be self-respect. An easy triumph over the South would cause the North great vainglory and the South great humiliation. Granting war, it should be such as to effect as much good and as little harm as possible. The South, if she ever comes back into the Union respecting herself, must be exhausted by war; she must be able to know that she did all she could, and the North must know that the South proved herself the equal of the North in everything manly and respectable. So I say that I should fear a future Union founded upon an easy submission; there would be scorners and scorned--not friends."
For some days the brigade remained near Williamsburg. We learned that a part of the army had gone up York River by water, and was encamped near White House, and that General McClellan's headquarters were at or near that place.
Then the division moved and camped near Roper's Church. We heard that the rebels had destroyed the Merrimac. Heavy rains fell. Hooker's division was still in reserve, and had little to do except to mount camp guard. I had nothing to do. We had left Dr. Khayme in his camp near Williamsburg.
I had not seen Lydia, Willis's manner changed from nervousness to melancholy. It was a week before he told me that he had written to Miss Lydia, and had been refused. The poor fellow had a hard time of it, but he fought himself hard, and I think I helped him a little by taking him into my confidence in regard to my own troubles. I was moved to do this by the belief that, if I should tell Willis about my peculiarities, which in my opinion would make marriage a crime for me, he would find companionship in sorrow where he had thought to find rivalry, and cease to think entirely of his own unhappiness. I was not wrong; he seemed to appreciate my intention and to be softened. I endeavoured also to stir up his ambition as a soldier, and had the great pleasure of seeing him begin seriously to study tactics and even strategy.
From Roper's Church we moved by short marches in rear of the other divisions of the army, until, on the 21st, we were near the Chickahominy, and still in reserve. Here I received a note from the Doctor, who informed me that his camp was just in our rear. I went at once.
"Well," said he, "how do you like doing nothing?"
"I haven't quite tired of it yet," I said.
"Your regiment has had a good rest."
"I wonder how much longer we shall be held in reserve."
"A good while yet, to judge from what I can hear," he said. "I am authorized to move to the right, and of course that means that I shall be in greater demand there."
"I wish I could go with you," said I.
"Why should you hesitate to do so?" he asked; "what are your orders?"
"There has been no change. I have no orders at all except to keep the adjutant of the Eleventh informed as to my whereabouts."
"How frequently must you report in person?"
"There was nothing said about that. I suppose a note will do," said I.
"Your division was so severely handled at Williamsburg that I cannot think it will be brought into action soon unless there should be a general engagement. If you can report in writing every two or three days, you need not limit your work or your presence to any particular part of the line."
"But the right must be many miles from our division."
"No," said the Doctor; "from Hooker's division to your present right is not more than five miles; the distance will be greater, though, in a few days."
"What is going on, Doctor?"
"McDowell is at Fredericksburg, with a large Confederate force in his front, and--but let me get a map and show you the situation."
He went to a small chest and brought out a map, which he spread on a camp-bed.
"Here you see Fredericksburg; McDowell is just south of it. Here, about this point, called Guiney's, is a Confederate division under General Anderson. McClellan has urged Washington to reënforce his right by ordering McDowell to march, thus," describing almost a semicircle which began by going south, then southeast, then southwest; "that would place McDowell on McClellan's right flank, here. Now, if McDowell reënforces McClellan, this entire army cannot cross the Chickahominy, and if McDowell does not reënforce McClellan, this entire army cannot cross the Chickahominy."
"Then in neither event can this army take Richmond," said I.
"Don't go too fast; I am speaking of movements for the next ten days; afterward, new combinations may be made. In case McDowell comes, it will take ten days for his movement to be completed, and your right wing would move to meet him if need be, rather than move forward and leave him. To move forward would expose McDowell's flank to the Confederates near Guiney's, and it is feared that Jackson is not far from them. Am I clear?"
"Yes; it seems clear that our right will not cross; but suppose McDowell does not come."
"In that case," said the Doctor, "for McClellan's right to cross the Chickahominy would be absurd, for the reason that a Confederate force, supposed to be from Jackson's army, has nearly reached Hanover Court-House--here--in the rear of your right, if you advance; besides, to cross the Chickahominy with the whole army would endanger your supplies. You see, this Chickahominy River is an awkward thing to cross; if it should rise suddenly, the army on the south side might starve before the men could get rations; all that the Confederates would have to do would be to prevent wagon trains from crossing the bridges. And another thing--defeat, with the river behind the army, would mean destruction. McClellan will not cross his army; he will throw only his left across."
"But why should he cross with any at all? It seems to me that with a wing on either side, he would be in very great danger of being beaten in detail."
"You are right in that. But he feels compelled to do something; he makes a show of advancing, in order to keep up appearances; the war department already thinks he has lost too much time and has shown too little aggressiveness. McClellan is right in preferring the James River as a base, for he could there have a river on either flank, and his base would be protected by the fleet; but this theory was overthrown at first by the Merrimac, and now that she is out of the way the clamour of the war department against delay prevents a change of base. So McClellan accepts the York as his base, but prepares, or at least seems to prepare, for a change to the James, by throwing forward his left."
"But the left has not been thrown forward."
"It will be done shortly."
"What would happen if McDowell should not be ordered to reënforce us?"
"McDowell has already been ordered to reënforce McClellan, and the order has been countermanded. The Washington authorities fear to uncover Washington on account of Jackson's presence in the Shenandoah Valley. If McDowell remains near Fredericksburg 'for good,' as we used to say in South Carolina, McClellan will be likely to get everything in readiness, then wait for his opportunity, and throw his right wing also across the Chickahominy, with the purpose of ending the campaign in a general engagement before his supplies are endangered. But this will take time. So I say that no matter what happens, except one thing, there will be nothing done by Hooker for ten days; he will stay in reserve."
"What is that one thing which you except, Doctor?"
"A general attack by the Confederates."
"And you think that is possible?"
"Always possible. The Confederates are quick to attack." "And you think they are ready to attack?"
"No; I think there is no reason to expect an attack soon, at any rate a general attack; but when McClellan throws his left wing over the Chickahominy, the Confederates may attack then."
"Then I ought to be with my regiment," said I.
"Yes," said he; "unless your regiment does not need you, or unless somebody else needs you more. Hooker will not be engaged unless your whole left is engaged; you may depend upon that. There is no possibility of an action for a week to come, and unless the Confederates attack, there will be no action for a month."
"Then we ought by all means to learn whether the Confederates intend to attack," said I.
"That is the conclusion of the argument," said the Doctor; "you can serve your cause better in that way than in any other way. You are free to go and come on any part of your lines. The right is the place for you."
"How do you learn all these things, Doctor?"
"By this and that; it requires no great wisdom to enable any one to see that both armies are in need of delay. McClellan is begging every day for reënforcements; the Confederates are waiting and are being reënforced."
"And you are firm in your opinion that I shall risk nothing by going with you?"
"I am sure that you will risk nothing so far as absence from your regiment is concerned, and I am equally sure that your opportunities for service will be better."
"In case I go with you to the right, I must find a means of reporting to the adjutant almost daily."
"That will be done easily enough; in any emergency I can send a man."
It was arranged, therefore, that I should remain with Dr. Khayme, who, on the 22d, moved his camp far to the right, in rear of General Porter's command, which we found supporting Franklin, whose troops were nearer the Chickahominy and behind New Bridge.
Before leaving the regiment I reported to the adjutant, telling him where I could be found at need, and promising to send in further reports if Dr. Khayme's camp should be moved. At this period of the campaign there was but little activity anywhere along our lines; in fact, the lines had not been fully developed, and, as there was a difficult stream between us and the enemy, there was no room for enterprise. Here and there a reconnaissance would be made in order to learn something of the position of the rebels on the south side of the river, but such reconnaissances consisted mostly in merely moving small bodies of our troops up to the swamp and getting them fired upon by the Confederate artillery posted on the hills beyond the Chickahominy. On this day, the 22d, while Dr. Khayme and I were at dinner, we could hear the sounds of guns in two places, but only a few shots.
"I have your uniform, Jones," said the Doctor.
"From a wounded prisoner?"
"Yes; but you need fear nothing. It has seen hard service, but I have had it thoroughly cleaned. It is not the regulation uniform, perhaps, since it has the South Carolina State button, but in everything else it is the correct thing."
"I hope I shall not need it soon," said I.
"Why? Should you not wish to end this miserable affair as quickly as possible?"
"Oh, of course; but I shall not put on rebel clothing as long as I can do as well with my own,"
"There is going to be some murderous work up the river--or somewhere on your right--in a day or two," said the Doctor. "General Butterfield has given stringent orders for no man to leave camp for an hour."
"Who is General Butterfield?"
"He commands a brigade in Porter's corps. We are just in rear of his camp--Morell's division."
"And you suppose that his order indicates the situation here?"
"Yes; evidently your troops are prepared to move. I am almost sorry that I have sent for Lydia to come."
"And they will move to the right?"
"Unquestionably; there is no longer any doubt that your right flank is threatened."
"Then why not fall back to the left?"
"McClellan cannot afford personally to make any movement that would look like retreat. Your right is threatened, and your right will hold; it may attack."
"Doctor, why is it that you always say your instead of our?"
"Because I am neutral," said the Doctor.
"But your sympathies are with us."
"Only in part; the Southern cause is weak through slavery, but strong in many other points. I think we have discussed this before."
That we had done so did not prevent us from discussing it again. The Doctor seemed never to tire of presenting arguments for the complete abolition of slavery, while his even balance of mind allowed him to sympathize keenly with the political contention of the South.
We had been talking for half an hour or so, when we heard some one approaching.
The Doctor rose and admitted an officer. I saluted; then I was presented to Captain Auchmuty, of General Morell's staff.
"I am afraid that my visit will not prove pleasant, Doctor," he said. "General Morell has learned that Mr. Berwick is here, and proposes to borrow him, if possible."
The captain looked first at Dr. Khayme, and then at me; the Doctor looked at me; I looked at the ground.
The captain continued, "Of course, General Morell understands that he is asking a favour rather than giving an order; but if he knows the circumstances, he believes you are ready to go anywhere you may be needed."
"General Morell is very kind," said I; "may I know what work is required of me?"
"Nothing is required; that is literally true." said Captain Auchmuty. "General Morell asks a favour; if you will be so good as to accompany me to his tent, you shall have the matter explained."
The courtesy with which General Morell was treating me--for he could just as easily have sent for me by his orderly--made me think myself his debtor.
"I will go with you, Captain," said I; "good-by, Doctor."
"No," said the captain; "you will not be taken so suddenly. I promise that you may return in an hour."
In General Morell's tent were two officers, afterward known to me as Generals Morell and Butterfield. It was not yet quite dark.
The officer who had conducted me, presented me to General Morell. In the conversation which followed, General Butterfield seemed greatly interested, but took no part at all.
General Morell spoke kindly to me. "I have sent for you," he said, "because I am told that you are faithful, and that you are prudent as well as accurate. We need information, and I hope you will get it for us."
"I am willing to do my best, General," said I, "provided that my absence is explained to General Grover's satisfaction."
"It is General Grover himself who recommends you," said he; "he is willing to let us profit by your services while his brigade is likely to remain inactive. I will show you his note."
Captain Auchmuty handed me an open note; I read from General Grover the expression used by General Morell.
"This is perfectly satisfactory, General," I said; "I will do my best for you."
"No man can do more. Now, come here. Look at this map, which you will take with you if you wish."
The general moved his seat up to a camp-bed, on which he spread the map. I was standing; he made me take a seat near him.
"First, I will show you generally what I want you to do; how you are to do it, you must decide for yourself. Here," said he, putting the point of his pencil on the map, "here is where we are now. Up here is Hanover Junction, with Hanover Court-House several miles this side--about this spot. You are to get to both places and find out if the enemy is at either, or both, and in what force. If he is not at either place, you are to move along the railroad in the direction of Richmond, until you find the enemy."
"Are there not two railroads at Hanover Junction, General?"
"Yes, the Virginia Central and the Richmond and Fredericksburg; they cross at the Junction."
"Which railroad shall I follow?"
"Ah, I see you are careful. It will be well for you to learn something of the situation on both of them; but take the Central if you are compelled to choose--the one nearest to us."
"Well, sir."
"If no enemy is found within eight or ten miles of the Junction, you need not trouble yourself further; but if he is found in say less than eight miles of the Junction, you are to diligently get all the knowledge you can of his position, his force in all arms, and, if possible, his purposes."
"I suppose that by the enemy you mean some considerable body, not a mere scouting party."
"Yes, of course. Hunt for big game. Don't bother with raiders or foragers."
"The Junction seems to be on the other side of the Pamunkey River," said I.
"Yes; it is between the North Anna and the South Anna, which form the Pamunkey a few miles below the Junction."
"Then, supposing that I find the rebels in force at Hanover Court-House, would there be any need for me to go on to the Junction?"
"None at all," said the general; "you would only be losing time; in case you find the enemy in force anywhere, you must return and inform us just as soon as you can ascertain his strength. But if you find no enemy at Hanover Court-House, or near it, or even if you find a small force, such as a party of cavalry, you should try to get to the Junction."
"Very well, General; how long do you expect me to be gone?"
"I can give you four days at the outside."
"Counting to-night?"
"No; beginning to-morrow. I shall expect you by the morning of the 27th, and shall hope to see you earlier."
"I shall not wish to be delayed," said I.
"You shall have horses; relays if you wish," said he.
"In returning shall I report to any officer I first chance to meet?" I asked.
"No; not unless you know the enemy to be particularly active; in that case, use your judgment; of course you would not let any force of ours run the risk of being surprised, but, all things equal, better reserve your report for me."
"And shall I find you here, sir?"
"If I am not here, you may report to General Butterfield; if this command moves, I will leave orders for you."
"At about what point will my danger begin, General?"
"You will be in danger from scouting parties of the rebel cavalry from the moment when you reach this point," putting his pencil on a spot marked Old Church, "and you will be delayed in getting around them perhaps. You have a full day to Hanover Court-House, and another day to the Junction, if you find that you must go there; that gives you two days more; but if you find the enemy at the Court-House, you may get back in three days."
"Why should I go by Old Church?"
"Well, it seems longer, but it will prove shorter in the end; the country between Old Church and Mechanicsville is neutral ground, and you would be delayed in going through it."
"Am I to report the conditions between Old Church and Hanover Court-House?"
"Take no time for that, but impress the character of the roads and the profile of the country on your mind--I mean in regard to military obstacles; of course if you find rebels in there, a force, I mean--look into them."
"Well, sir, I am ready."
"You may have everything you want; as many men as you want, mounted or afoot; can you start to-morrow morning, Berwick?"
"Yes, General; by daylight I want to be at Old Church. Please have a good man to report to me two hours before day."
"Mounted?"
"Yes, sir; and with a led saddle horse and three days' rations and corn--or oats would be better. Let him come armed."
"Very well, Berwick. Is that all?"
"Yes, sir; I think that will do. I suppose the man will know the road to Old Church."
"If not, I will send a guide along. Now, Berwick, good night, and good luck. You have my thanks, and you shall have more if your success will justify it."
"Good night, General. I will do my best."
Dr. Khayme argued that I should not make this venture in disguise, and I had great doubt what to do; however, I at last compromised matters by deciding to take the Confederate uniform to be used in case I should need it. A thought occurred to me: "Doctor," said I, "these palmetto buttons might prove a bad thing. Suppose I should get into a brigade of Georgians occupying some position where there are no other troops; what would a Carolinian be doing amongst them?"
"I have provided for that," said the Doctor; "you see that these buttons are fastened with rings; here are others that are smooth: all you have to do is to change when you wish--it takes but a few moments. However, nobody would notice your buttons unless you should be within six feet of him and in broad daylight."
"Yet I think it would be better to change now," said I; "there are more Confederates than Carolinians."
The Doctor assented, and we made the change. I put the palmetto buttons into my haversack.
Before I slept everything had been prepared for the journey. I studied the map carefully and left it with the Doctor. The gray clothing was wrapped in a gum-blanket, to be strapped to the saddle. My escort was expected to provide for everything else. I decided to wear a black soft hat of the Doctor's, whose head was as big as mine, although he weighed about half as much as I did. My own shoes were coarse enough, and of no peculiar make. In my pockets I put nothing except a knife, some Confederate money, some silver coin, and a ten-dollar note of the bank of Hamburg, South Carolina--a note which Dr. Khayme possessed and which he insisted on my taking. There would be nothing on me to show that I was a Union soldier, except my uniform. I would go unarmed.
Before daylight I was aroused. My man was waiting for me outside the tent. I intended to slip out without disturbing the Doctor, but he was already awake. He pressed my hand, but said not a word.
The man and I mounted and took the road, he leading.
"Do you know the way to Old Church?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," said he.
"What is your name?"
"Jones, sir; don't you know me?"
"What? My friend of the black horse?"
"Yes, sir."
"But I believe you are in blue this time."
"Yes; I got no orders."
I was glad to have Jones; he was a self-reliant man, I had already had occasion to know.
We marched rapidly, Jones always in the lead. The air was fine. The morning star shone tranquil on our right. Vega glittered overhead, and Capella in the far northeast, while at our front the handle of the Dipper cut the horizon. The atmosphere was so pure that I looked for the Pleiades, to count them; they had not risen.
We passed at first along a road on either side of which troops lay in bivouac, with here and there the tent of some field officer; then parks of artillery showed in the fields; then long lines of wagons, with horses and mules picketed behind. Occasionally we met a horseman, but nothing was said to him or by him.
Now the encampment was behind us, and we rode along a lane where nothing was seen except fields and woods.
"Jones," said I; "are you furnished with credentials?"
"Yes, sir," he replied; "if our pickets or patrols stop us, I can satisfy them."
At daylight we were halted. Jones rode forward alone, then returned and explained that our post would admit us. We passed a mounted vedette, and then went on for a few hundred yards until we came to a crossroad.
"We are at Old Church," said Jones.
"And we have nobody here?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; our men are over there, but I suppose we are to take the left here; we have another picket-post half a mile up the road."
"Then we will stop with them and breakfast," said I. We took to the left--toward the west. At the picket-post the road forked; a blacksmith's shop was at the north of the road. The sun had nearly risen.
The picket consisted of a squad of cavalry under Lieutenant Russell. He gave me all the information he could. The right-hand road, by the blacksmith's shop, went across the Totopotomoy Creek near its mouth, he said, and then went on to the Pamunkey River, and at the place where it crossed the Pamunkey another road came in, running down the river from Hanover Court-House. He was sure that the road which came in was the road from Hanover to the ferry at Hanover Old Town; he believed the ferry had not yet been destroyed. This agreed with the map. I asked him where the left-hand road went. He said he thought it was the main road to Hanover Court-House; that it ran away from the river for a considerable distance, but united higher up with the river road. This also agreed with the map. I had scratched on the lining of my hat the several roads given on the map as the roads from Old Church to Hanover Court-House, so that, in case my memory should flag, I could have some resource, but I found that I could remember without uncovering.
The lieutenant could tell me little concerning distances; what he knew did not disaccord with my small knowledge. I asked him if he knew where the nearest post of the enemy was now. "They are coming and going," said he; "one day they will be moving, and then a day will pass without our hearing of them. If they have a post anywhere, I don't know it."
"And there are none of our men beyond this point?"
"No--nobody at all," said he.
Jones had given the horses a mouthful of oats, and we had swallowed our breakfast, the lieutenant kindly giving us coffee. For several reasons I thought it best to take the road to the left: first, it was away from the river, which the rebels were supposed to be watching closely; second, the distance seemed not so great; and, third, it was said to traverse a less populous region.
I had now to determine the order of our advance, and decided that we should ride forward alternately, at least until we should strike the crossing of the Totopotomoy Creek; so I halted Jones, rode forward for fifty yards or so, then stopped and beckoned to him to come on. As he went by me I told him to continue to advance until he should reach, a turn in the road; then he should halt and let me pass him. At the first stop he made I saw with pleasure that he had the good judgment to halt on the side of the road amongst the bushes. I now rode up to him in turn, and paused before passing.
"You have kept your eyes on the stretch, in front?" I asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And have seen nothing?"
"No, sir; not a thing."
"You understand why we advance in this manner?"
"Yes; I can watch for you, and you can watch for me, and both can watch for both."
"Yes, and not only that. We can hardly both be caught at the same time; one of us might be left to tell the tale."
I went on by. The road here ran through woods, but shortly a field was seen in front, with a house at the left of the road, and I changed tactics. When Jones had reached me, we rode together through the field, went on quickly past the house, and on to another thicket, in the edge of which we found a school-house; but just before reaching the thicket I made Jones follow me at the distance of some forty yards. I had made this change of procedure because I had been able to see that there was nobody in the stretch of road passing the house, and I thought it better for two at once to be exposed to possible view from the house for a minute than one each for a minute.
We had not seen a soul.
We again proceeded according to our first programme, I riding forward for fifty yards or so, and Jones passing me, and alternately thus until we saw, just beyond us, a road coming into ours from the southwest. On the north of our road, and about two hundred and fifty yards from the spot where we had halted, was a farmhouse, which I supposed was the Linney house marked on the map. The road at the left, I knew from the map, went straight to Mechanicsville and thence to Richmond, and I suspected that it was frequently patrolled by the rebel cavalry. We remained in hiding at a short distance from the house, and consulted. I feared to pass openly on the road--two roads, in fact--opposite the house, for discovery and pursuit at this time would mean the abortion of the whole enterprise. Every family in this section could reasonably be supposed to have furnished men to the Confederate army near by and, if we should be seen by any person whomsoever, there was great probability that our presence would be at once divulged to the nearest rebels. The result of our consultation was our turning back. We rode down toward Old Church until we came to a forest stretching north of the road, which we now left, and made through the woods a circuit of the Linney house, and reached the Hanover road again in the low grounds of Totopotomoy Creek. We had seen no one. The creek bottom was covered with forest and dense undergrowth. We crossed the creek some distance below the road, and kept in the woods for a mile without having to venture into the open.
It was about nine o'clock; we had made something like three miles since we had left Old Church.
In order to get beyond the next crossroad, it was evident that we must run some risk of being seen from four directions at once, or else we must flank the crossing.
By diverging to the right, we found woods to conceal us all the way until we were in sight of the crossroad. I dismounted, and bidding Jones remain, crept forward until I could see both ways, up and down, on the road. There were houses at my left--some two hundred yards off, and but indistinctly seen through the trees--on both sides of the road, but no person was visible. Just at my right the road sank between two elevations. I went to the hollow and found that from this position the houses could not be seen. I went back to Jones, and together we led our horses across the road through the hollow. We mounted and rode rapidly away through the woods, and reached the Hanover road at a point two miles or more beyond the Linney house.
We now felt that if there was any post of rebels in these parts it would be found behind Crump's Creek, which was perhaps half a mile at our left, running north into the Pamunkey. We turned to the left and made for Crump's Creek. We found an easy crossing, and we soon reached the Hanover river road, within four miles, I thought, of Hanover Court-House.
And now our danger was really to become immediate, and our fear oppressive. We were in sight of the main road running from Hanover Court-House down the Pamunkey--a road that was no doubt covered by the enemy's plans, and on which bodies of his cavalry frequently operated. If the force at Hanover Court-House, or the Junction, were seeking to get to the rear of McClellan's right wing, this would be the road by which it would march; this road then, beyond all question, was constantly watched, and there was strong probability that rebels were kept posted in good positions upon it. But for the fact that I might find it necessary to reach the Junction, I should now have gone forward afoot.
I decided to use still greater circumspection in going farther forward, and to get near the enemy's post, if there should prove to be one, at the Court-House, only after nightfall. Thus we had from ten o'clock until dark--nine hours or more--in which to make our gradual approach.
The country was so diversified with woods and fields that we found it always possible to keep within shelter. When we lost sight of the road, Jones or I would climb a tree. By making great detours we went around every field, consuming much time, it is true, but we had plenty of time. We avoided every habitation, and chose the thickest of the woods and the deepest of the hollows, and so conducted our advance that, remarkable as it may seem, from the time we left our outposts at Old Church until we came in sight of the enemy near Hanover Court-House, we did not see a human being, though the distance traversed must have been fully twelve miles. Of course, I knew that it was very likely that we ourselves had been seen by more than one frightened inhabitant, but it was my care to keep at such a distance from every dwelling house that no one there could tell whether we were friend or enemy.
At noon we took our ease in a hollow in the midst of a thicket. While we were resting we heard far to our rear a distant sound that resembled the discharge of artillery. We learned afterward that the sound came from Mechanicsville, occupied this day by the advance of McClellan's right.
About two o'clock we again set out. We climbed a hill from which we could see over a considerable stretch of country. The field in front of us was large; it would require a long detour to avoid the open space. Still, we were not pressed for time, and I was determined to be prudent. The only question was whether we should flank the field at the right or at the left. From our point of observation, it seemed to me that the field in front stretched sufficiently far in the north to reach the Hanover road; if this were true our only course was by the left. To be as nearly sure as possible, I sent Jones up a tree. I regretted very much that I had not brought a good field-glass, and wondered why General Morrell had not thought of it. Jones remained in the tree a long time; I had forbidden him speaking, lest the sound of his voice should reach the ear of some unseen enemy. When he came down he said that the road did go through the field and that there were men in the road.
I now climbed the tree in my turn, and saw very distinctly, not more than half a mile away, a small body of men in the road. They seemed to be infantry and to be stationary; but while I was looking they began to move in the direction of Hanover Court-House. There were bushes on the sides of the road where they were; soon they passed beyond the bushes, and I could see that the men were mounted. I watched them until they were lost to sight where the road entered the woods beyond. I had counted eleven; I supposed there were ten men under command of an officer.
It was now clear that we must flank the big field on its left. We acted with great caution. The fence stretched far beyond the corner of the field; we let down the fence, led our horses in, then put up the gap, and rode into the woods on the edge of the field. In some places the undergrowth was low, and we feared that our heads might be seen above our horses; in such places we dismounted. We passed at a distance one or two small houses--not dwellings, we thought, but field barns or cribs. At length we reached the western side of the field; we had gained greatly in position, though we were but little nearer to Hanover.
We supposed that we were almost half a mile from the road, and that we were in no pressing danger. When we had gone north about a quarter of a mile we dismounted, and while Jones remained with the horses, I crept through the woods until I could see the road. It was deserted. I crept nearer and nearer until I was almost on its edge; sheltered by the bushes I could see a long distance either way. At my left was a house, some two hundred yards away and on the far side of the road. I watched the house. The men I had seen in the road might have stopped in the house; there might be--indeed, there ought to be--an outpost near me, and this house would naturally be visited very often. But I saw nothing, and at last crept back into the woods for a short distance, and advanced again parallel with the road, until I came, as I supposed, opposite the house; then I crept up to the road again. I could now see the yard in front of the house, and even through the house from front to back door; it was a small house of but two rooms. It now began to seem as though the house was an abandoned one, in which case the rebels would likely never stop there, unless for water. I saw no well in the yard. There was no sign of life.
I turned again and sought the woods, and again advanced parallel with the road, until, in about three hundred yards, I could see a field in my front. This field ran up to the road, and beyond the road there was another field, the road running between rail fences. I returned to Jones, whom I found somewhat alarmed in consequence of my long absence, and we brought the horses up to the spot to which I had advanced. It was now about four o'clock, and we had yet three hours of daylight. Hanover could not be much more than two miles from us.
The field in front was not wide; it sloped down to a heavily wooded hollow, in which I judged there was a stream. As I was yet quite unsatisfied in regard to the house almost in our rear, I asked Jones to creep back and observe the place thoroughly.
He returned; I could see news in his face. "They are passing now," he said.
No need to ask who "they" meant. We took our horses deeper into the woods. There Jones told me that he had seen some thirty men, in two squads, more than a hundred yards apart, ride fast toward Hanover.
"But why could I not see them in the road yonder, as they went through the field?" I asked.
"Because the road there is washed too deep. Their heads would not show above the fence," he said.
I tried to fathom the meaning of the rapid movement of these small bodies of rebels, but could get nothing out of it, except the supposition that our cavalry had pushed on up the road after we had passed Old Church. There might be, and doubtless were, several attempts made this day to ascertain the position of the rebels.
No crossing of that road now and trying the rebel left! We went to the left of the field. It was about five o'clock. We reached the foot of a hill and saw a small creek ahead of us. I now felt that I must go forward alone.
To make sure that I could find Jones again, I stationed him in the creek swamp near the corner of the field. We agreed upon a signal.
I crept forward through the swamp, converging toward the road. I crossed the stream, and reached a point from which I could see the road; it ran up a hill; on the hill I could see a group of men. Here, I was convinced, was the Confederate picket-line, if there was a line.
A thick-topped tree was growing some thirty yards from the edge of the road; from its boughs I could see mounted men facing east, nearer to me than the group above. The sun had nearly set; it shone on sabres and carbines. I was hoping there was no infantry picket-line. I came down from the tree, returned rapidly to Jones, and got ready. I told him to make himself comfortable for the night, and to wait for me no longer than two o'clock the next day. The package containing the gray clothing I took with me. I would not put it on until I should see that nothing else would do.
And now, feeling that it was for the last time, I again went forward. I had decided to try to penetrate the picket-line if I should find it to be a very long line; if it proved to be a line that I could turn, I would go round it, and when on its flank I would act as opportunity should offer. If the enemy's force were small, I might see it all from the outside; but if it consisted of brigades and divisions, I would put on the disguise and throw away my own uniform.
Twilight had deepened; on the hills in front fires were beginning to show. I reached the foot of the hill on which I had seen the rebel picket-post, and moved on slowly. I was unarmed, carrying nothing but the gray clothes wrapped in the gum-blanket.
The hill was spotted with clumps of low bushes, but there were no trees. At every step I paused and listened. I thought I could hear voices far away. Halfway up the hill I stopped; the voices were nearer--or louder, possibly.
I now ceased advancing directly up the hill; instead, I moved off at a right angle toward the left, trying to keep a line parallel with the supposed picket-line, and listening hard. A rabbit sprang up from almost under my feet. I was glad that it did not run up the hill. Voices continued to come to my ears, but from far away. I supposed that the line was more than three hundred yards from me, and that vedettes were between us; but for the vedettes, I should have gone nearer. I knew that I was in no great danger so long as the pickets would talk. The voices made me sure that these pickets did not feel themselves in the presence of an enemy. They evidently knew that they had bodies of cavalry on all the roads leading to their front. Possibly they were prepared for attack by any body of men, but they were not prepared against observation by one man; they were trusting their cavalry for that. So long, then, as I could hear the voices, I felt comparatively safe. The pickets could not see me, for I was down the hill from them--much below their sky line; if one of them should happen to be in their front for any purpose, he would think of me as I should think of him; he certainly would not suppose me an enemy; if he should be alarmed, I could get away.
So I continued moving along in the same direction, until I struck woods, where the hill ceased in a plateau; here I was on level ground, and I could see in the distance the light of camp-fires, between which and me I could not doubt were the pickets, if not indeed the main line also, of the enemy.
I kept on. The ground changed again, so that I looked down on the fires. I paused and reflected. This picket-line was long; it certainly covered more than a regiment or two. Again I wished that I were on the north side of the road.
The camp-fires now seemed more distant and a little to my right. I was beginning to flatter myself with the belief that I had reached the point where the picket-line bent back. I felt encouraged.
I retired some twenty yards, and then went on more boldly, still pursuing a course parallel, as I thought, with the picket-line fronting east. Soon I reached another road.
Should I cross this road? It ran straight, so far as I could see, into the position of the enemy; it was a wide road, no doubt one of the main roads leading to Hanover Court-House.
I looked up the road toward the enemy. I could see no camp-fires.
I thought that I had reached the enemy's flank.
A troop of cavalry rode by, going to their front.
I felt sure that I was right. I looked and found the north, star through the branches of the trees. I was right. This road ran north and south. The picket-line doubtless reached the road, or very near it, and bent back; but how far back? If the enemy depended upon cavalry for their flank,--and this flank was toward their main army at Richmond,--my work would be easy.
I crossed the road, and crept along it toward Hanover. More cavalry rode by. I kept on, doubting more strongly the existence of any infantry pickets.
An ambulance went by, going north into camp.
I went thirty yards deeper into the woods. I took everything out of my pockets, stripped off my uniform, and covered it with leaves as well as I could in the darkness. Then I put on the gray clothes and twisted the gum-blanket and threw it over my shoulder. I had resolved to accompany any ambulance or wagon that should come into the rebel camp.
Taking my station by the side of the road, I lay down and waited.
Again cavalry rode by, this squad also going to the front. I was now convinced that there was no picket-line here; this flank was protected by cavalry. Now I was glad that I had not tried the left flank of the rebel line.
I heard trains rolling, and they seemed not very far from me. I could hear the engines puffing.
From down the road toward Richmond came the crack of a whip. I saw a team coming--four or six mules, I could not yet tell in the night.
A heavy wagon came lumbering along. I was about to step out and get behind it, when I saw another; it passed, and still another came. As the last one went by I rose and followed it, keeping bent under the feed-box which, was slung behind it.
I marched thus into the rebel camp at Hanover Court-House.
Soon the wagons turned sharply to the left, following, I thought, a new road cut for a purpose; now camp-fires could be seen again, and near by.
The cry of a sentinel was heard in front, and the wagons halted. I supposed that we were now to pass the camp guard, which, for mere form's sake, had challenged the Confederate teamsters; I crept entirely under the body of the wagon.
We moved on; I saw no sentinel; doubtless he had turned his back and was walking toward the other end of his beat.
The wagon, on its new road, was now passing to the right of an encampment; long rows of tents, with streets between, showed clearly upon a hill at the left. In the streets there were many groups of men; some of them were talking noisily; some were singing. It was easy to see that these men were in good spirits; they surely had not had a hard march that day. For my part, I was beginning to feel very tired; still, I knew that excitement would keep me going for this night, and for the next day, if need be.
The wagon passed beyond the tents; then, judging that it was to go on until it should be far in the rear, I stepped aside and was alone again, and with the Confederate forces between Jones and me.
I sat on the ground, and tried to think. It seemed to me that the worst was over. I was safer here than I had been an hour ago, while following up the picket-line--safer, perhaps, than I had been at any time that day. I was a Confederate surrounded by an army who wore the Southern uniform. Nothing less than stupidity on my part could lose me. I must still act cautiously--yet without the appearance of caution; that was a more difficult matter.
What I had to do now seemed very simple; it was merely the work of walking about and estimating the number of the rebels. To get out of these lines would not be any more difficult for me than for any other rebel.
But would not a man walking hither and thither in the night be accosted by some one?
Well, what of that? As soon as he sees me near, he will be satisfied.
But suppose some man asks you what regiment you belong to--what can you say?
Let me think. The troops here may be all Virginians, or all Georgians, and I am a South Carolinian.
The sweat rolled down my face--unwholesome sweat. I had allowed my imagination to carry me too far; I had really put myself in the place of a Carolinian for the moment; the becoming a Union soldier again was sudden, violent. I must guard against such transitions.
Seeing at last that hiding was not acting cautiously and without the appearance of caution, I rose and started for the camp-fires, by a great effort of will dominating my discomposure, and determining to play the Confederate soldier amongst his fellows. I would go to the men; would talk to them when necessary; would count their tents and their stacks of arms if possible; would learn, as soon as I could, the name of some regiment, so that if I were questioned I could answer.
But suppose you are asked your regiment, and give an appropriate answer, and then are asked for your captain's name--what can you say?
I beat off the fearful suggestion. Strong suspicion alone could prompt such, an inquiry. There was no more reason for these men to suspect my being a Union soldier than there was for me to suspect that one of these men was a Union soldier.
I was approaching the encampment from the rear. Two men overtook me, each bending under a load of many canteens. They passed me without speaking. I followed them--lengthening my step to keep near them--and went with them to their company. I stood by in the light of the fires while they distributed the canteens, or, rather, while they put the canteens on the ground, and their respective owners came and got them. The men did not speak to me.
I had hoped to find the Confederates in line of battle; they certainly ought to have been in line, and in every respect ready for action, but, instead, they were here in tents and without any preparation against surprise, so far as I could see, except the cavalry pickets thrown out on the roads. If they had been in line, it would have been easy for me to estimate the number of bayonets in the line of stacked arms; I was greatly disappointed. The tents seemed to me too few for the numbers of men who were at the camp-fires. I saw forms already stretched out on their blankets in the open air. Doubtless many men, in this mild weather, preferred to sleep outside of the crowded tents.
Hoping that something would be said to give me what I wanted to know, I sat down.
One of the men asked me for a chew of tobacco.
"Don't chaw," said I, mentally vowing that henceforth. I should carry some tobacco.
"Why don't you buy your own tobacco?" asked a voice.
The petitioner refused to reply.
A large man stood up; he took from his pocket a knife and a square of tobacco; he gravely approached the first speaker, cut off a very small portion, and handed it to him. The men looked on in silence at this act, which, seemingly, was nothing new to them. One of them winked at me. I inferred that the large man intended a rebuke to his comrade for begging from a stranger. The large man went back and sat down.
"Say, Doc, how long are we goin' to be here?"
"I wish I could tell you," said the large man.
There were seven men in the group around the fire; the eyes of all were upon the large man called Doc. He seemed a man of character and influence, though but a private. He turned to me.
"You are tired," he said.
I merely nodded assent. His remark surprised and disconcerted me, so that I could not find my voice. In a moment my courage had returned. The look of the man was the opposite of suspicious--it was sympathetic. He was not baldly curious. His attitude toward me might shield me from the curiosity of the others, if, indeed, they were feeling interest of any sort in me. I had been fearing that some one would ask me my regiment.
"I want to go home to my mammy!" screamed a voice at the next fire.
Nobody gave this yell the least notice. I supposed it a common saying with homesick soldiers.
I wondered what Doc and the other men were thinking of me. Perhaps I was thought a friend of one of the men who had brought the water; perhaps nobody thought anything, or cared anything, about me. Although I felt helpless, I would remain.
A torn envelope was lying on the ground, within a few inches of my hand. The addressed side was next the ground. My fears fled; accident had helped me--had given me a plan.
I turned the letter over. The address was:--
PRIVATE D.W. ROBERTS,
Co. G, 7th N.C. Reg't,
Branch's Brigade,
Gordonsville, Va.
I rose. "I must be going," said I, and walked off down the street. The act, under the circumstances, did not seem to me entirely natural, but it was the best I could do; these men, I hoped, would merely think me an oddity.
In the next street I stopped at the brightest fire that I saw.
"This is not the Seventh, is it?" I asked.
"No," said one; "the Seventh is over there," pointing.
"What regiment is this?"
"Our'n," said he.
"Oh, don't be giving me any of your tomfoolery," said I.
"This is the Thirty-third," said another.
I went back toward the Seventh, passed beyond it, and approached another group. A man of this group rose and sauntered away toward the left. I followed him. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "Hello, Jim! where are you going?"
He turned and said, "Hello yourself, if you want anybody to hello; but my name's not Jim."
"I beg your pardon," said I; "afraid I'm in the wrong pew; what regiment is this?"
"The Twenty-eighth," said he, and went on without another word.
The nature of the replies given me by my friends of the Thirty-third and Twenty-eighth made me feel nearly certain that all of Branch's regiments were from one State. I was supposed to belong to the brigade; it was needless to tell me the name of the State from which my regiment--from which all the regiments--came. Had the brigade been a mixed one, the men would have said, "Thirty-third North Carolina;" "Twenty-eighth North Carolina"; that they did not trouble themselves with giving the name of their State was strong reason for believing that all the regiments, as I knew the Seventh to be, were from North Carolina.
I continued my walk, picking up as I went several envelopes, which I thrust into my pocket. It must now have been about ten o'clock. The men had become silent; but few were sitting at the fires. I believed I had sufficient information as to the composition of the brigade, but I had learned little as to its strength. I knew that there were five streets in the encampment, and therefore five regiments in the brigade. But how many men were in the brigade?
Behind the rear regiment was a small cluster of wall-tents, which I took for brigade headquarters. At the head of every street was a wall-tent, which I supposed was the colonel's. At the left of the encampment of tents, and separated from the encampment by a space of a hundred yards, perhaps, was a line of brighter fires than now showed in the streets. The dying out of the fires in the streets was what called my attention, by contrast, to these brighter fires. I walked toward the bright fires; to my surprise I found troops in bivouac. I went boldly up to the nearest fire, and found two men cooking. I asked for a drink of water.
"Sorry, neighbour, but we hain't got nary nother drop," said one.
"An' we don't see no chance to git any," said the other.
"Don't you know where the spring is?" I asked.
"No; do you?"
"I don't know exactly," said I, "but I know the direction; it's down that way," pointing; "I've seen men coming from that way with canteens. You are mighty late getting supper."
"Jest ben relieved; we tuck the places of some men this mornin', an' they jest now got back an' let us loose."
"What duty were you on?"
"On guyard by that battery way over yander; 'twa'n't our time, but we went. Say, neighbour, wish't you'd show me the way to that water o' yourn. Dam'f I knowed the' was any water'n less'n a mile."
"I don't want to go 'way back there," said I; "but I'll tell you how to find it."
"Well, tell me then, an' tell me quick. I reckin if I can git started right, I'll find lots more a-goin'."
"Let me see," said I, studying; "you go over yonder, past General Branch's headquarters, and go down a hill through, the old field, and--let me see; what regiment is this?"
"This'n's the bloody Forty-fifth Georgy," said he; "we ain't no tar-heels; it's a tar-heel brigade exceptin' of us, but we ain't no tar-heels--no insult intended to you, neighbour."
"Oh, I don't mind being called a tar-heel," said I; "in fact, I rather like it."
"Well, wher's your water?"
"You know where the old field is?"
"No, I don't; we've jest got here last night. I don't know anything."
"You know headquarters?"
"Yes."
"Well, just go on down the hill, and you'll find a path in the old field"
The man picked up two canteens, and went off. I remained with his messmate.
"What battery was that you were talking about? I haven't seen a battery with the brigade in a week."
"Wher' have you ben that you hain't seed it?" he asked.
"Off on duty," said I.
"No wonder you hain't seed it, then; an' you mought ha' stayed with your comp'ny an' not ha' seed it then; you hain't seed it becaze it ain't for to be saw. They're put it away back yander."
"How many guns?"
"Some says six an' some says four; I didn't see 'em, myself."
"I don't understand why you didn't see the guns, if you were guarding the battery; and I don't see why the battery couldn't do its own guard duty."
"We wa'n't a-guyardin' no battery; we was a-guyardin' a house down by the battery."
"Oh, I see; protecting some citizen's property."
"That's so; pertectin' property an' gittin' hongry."
"That's Captain Brown's battery, is it not?"
"No, sirree! Hit's Latham's battery, though some does call it Branch's battery; but I don't see why. Jest as well call Hardeman's regiment Branch's, too."
"Which regiment is Hardeman's?"
"Our'n; it's with Branch's brigade now, but it ain't Branch's regiment, by a long shot."
"I hear that more troops are expected here," said I, at a venture.
"Yes, and I know they're a-comin'; some of 'em is at the Junction now--comin' from Fredericksburg. I heerd Cap'n Simmons say so this mornin'."
"We'll have a big crowd then," said I.
"What regiment is your'n?"
"'Eventh," said I, without remorse cancelling the difference between the Eleventh Massachusetts and the Seventh North Carolina.
The man moved about the fire, attending to his cooking. The talk almost ceased. I pulled an envelope from my pocket and began tearing it into little bits, which I threw into the fire one by one, pretending mere abstraction.
The envelope had borne the address:--
CAPTAIN GEORGE B. JOHNSTON,
Co. G, 28th N.C. Reg't,
Branch's Brigade,
Hanover C.H., Va.
I took out another envelope. It was addressed to Lieut. E.G. Morrow, of the same company--Company G of the Twenty-eighth. A third bore the address:--
CAPTAIN S.N. STOWE, Co. B, 7th N.C. Reg't,
Gordonsville, Va.
More envelopes went into the fire. They bore the names of privates, corporals, and sergeants; some were of the Eighteenth, others of the Thirty-seventh North Carolina Volunteers. One envelope had no address. Another gave me the name of Col. James H. Lane, but no regiment.
"Time your friend was getting back," said I.
"Seems to me so, too," said he; "but I reckin he found a crowd ahead of him."
"How many men in your regiment?" I asked.
"Dunno; there was more'n a thousand at first; not more'n seven or eight hundred, I reckin; how many in your'n?"
"About the same," I replied; "how many in your company?"
"Eighty-two," he said.
The other man returned from the spring.
"Know what I heerd?" he asked.
"No; what was it?" inquired his companion.
"I heard down thar at the branch that the Twelf' No'th Ca'lina was here summers."
"Well, maybe it is."
"I got it mighty straight."
"How did you hear it?" I asked.
"A man told me that one of Branch's couriers told him so; he had jest come from 'em; said they is camped not more'n two mile from here"
"Only the Twelfth? No other regiment?" I asked.
"Didn't hear of no other," he replied,
"I wonder what we are here for?" I ventured to say.
"Plain case," said he; "guyard the railroad."
My knowledge of the situation had vastly increased. Here was Branch's command, consisting of my North Carolina regiments and one from Georgia, and Latham's battery; another regiment was supposed to be near by. What more need I know? I must learn the strength of the force; I must get corroboration. The man with whom I had talked might be wrong on some point. I considered my friend's opinion correct concerning Branch's purpose. The Confederate force was put here to protect the railroad. From the envelopes I had learned that Branch's brigade had recently been at Gordonsville; it was clear that it had left Gordonsville in order to place itself between Anderson's force at Fredericksburg and Johnston's army at Richmond, and thus preserve communications. Branch had been reënforced by the Forty-fifth Georgia on the preceding day, and seemingly on this day by the Twelfth North Carolina. I supposed that General Morell could easily get knowledge from army headquarters of the last positions occupied by these two regiments, and I did not trouble myself to ask questions on this point. All I wanted now was corroboration and knowledge of numbers.
The men had eaten their supper. I left them, giving but slight formality to my manner of departure. I had made up my mind to seek the path to the spring. From such a body, thirsty men would be going for water all night long, especially as there seemed little of it near by. By getting near the spring I should also be able, perhaps, to determine the position of the wagons; I had decided to attempt going out of these lines in the manner of my entering them, if I could but find a wagon going before daylight.
It took some little time to find the spring, which was not a spring after all, but merely a pool in a small brook. I hid myself by the side of the path and waited; soon I heard the rattling of empty canteens and the footsteps of a man; I started to meet him.
"Say, Mister, do you know whar that spring is?"
"I know where the water is," said I; "it's a branch."
"Gosh! Branch's brigade ort to have a branch."
"You must have come in a hurry," said I; "you are blowing."
"Blowin'? Yes; blowed if I didn't come in a hurry, and blowed if I did; you've hit it!"
"What regiment do you belong to?"
"Thirty-seventh."
"Is that Colonel Lane's?"
"No; Lane's is the Twenty-eight. Colonel Lee is our colonel."
"Oh, yes; I got Lee and Lane mixed."
"What regiment is your'n?"
"'Eventh,"
"That's Campbell's," said he.
"You know the brigade mighty well. Here's your water," said I, sitting down while the man should fill his canteens.
"Know 'em all except these new ones," said he.
"That's the Forty-fifth Georgia," said I; "but I hear that more are coming. I heard that the Twelfth North Carolina is near by, and is under Branch."
"Yes; an' it's a fact," said he.
"Your regiment is bigger than ours, I believe," said I.
"Well, I dunno about that; how many men in your'n?"
"About seven or eight hundred, I reckon."
"Not much difference, then; but, I tell you what, that old Twenty-eighth is a whopper--a thousand men."
I said nothing; I could hear the gurgling of the water as it ran down the neck of the canteen. The man chuckled, "Branch's brigade ort to have a branch; blowed if it ortn't." He was pleased with himself for discovering something like a pun or two.
For two reasons it was policy for me to go back, or start back, with this man; first, I wanted him to talk more; second, if I should linger at the water, he might think my conduct strange.
Going up the hill, he asked me to take the lead. I did so, venturing the remark that these two new regiments made Branch's brigade a very big one.
"Yes," said he; "but I reckon they won't stay with us forever."
"Wonder where they came from," said I.
"Too hard for me," he replied; "especially the Twelfth; the Forty-fifth was at Goldsborough, but not in our brigade."
We reached the street of the Seventh. I stepped aside. "I stop here," said I.
"Well," said he, "I'm much obleeged to you for showin' me that branch--that branch that belongs to Branch's brigade," and he went his way.
And now I tried to take some rest. I thought it more prudent to stay at one of the camp-fires, fearing that if I concealed myself I should be stumbled upon and suspected, so I went up to one of the fires of the Twenty-eighth, wrapped my gum-blanket around me and lay down. But I found it impossible to sleep. The newness of the experience and the danger of the situation drove sleep as far from me as the east is from the west. I believe that in romances it is the proper thing to say that a man in trying situations sleeps the sleep of the infant; but this is not romance. I could not sleep.
Some time before day a man lying near my fire stretched himself and sat up. I watched him from the corner of my eye. I wanted no conversation with him; I was afraid he might question me too closely, and that my replies would not prove satisfactory to him. I kept quiet; I knew enough--too much to risk losing.
Suddenly he looked toward me. I was afraid that he had become aware of a foreign element thrown into his environment. My fears were confirmed. He opened his mouth and said, "Who--in--the--hell--that--is." The utterance was an assertion rather than an inquiry. I made no response. He continued to look at me--shook his head--nodded it--then fell back and went to sleep.
To make sure that he was fast, I waited awhile; then I rose and made my way back to a spot near the wagon train, far in the rear. It must have been after three o'clock. The teamsters had finished feeding their mules. Soon two of them began to hitch up their teams; then, with much shouting and rattling of harness, they moved off. I stole along beside the second wagon for some distance, and had almost decided to climb into it from behind when I thought that possibly some one was in it. There seemed little danger in going out behind the wagons, especially as there was no light of day as yet, although I expected that the cavalry pickets on the road would be looking straight at me, if I should pass them, and although, too, I fully understood that these wagons would be escorted by cavalry when on any dangerous part of the road to Richmond. But my plan was to abandon the wagon before we should see any cavalry.
When my wagon had reached the thickest of the woods, and about the spot, as nearly as I could judge, where I had joined the other wagons on the preceding night, I quietly slipped into the bushes on the left of the road.
The light was sufficient for me to distinguish large objects at twenty paces, but the woods were dense, and I knew that caution must be more than ever my guide; now that I had information of great value, it would not do to risk capture.
For some time I crept through the woods on my hands and knees, intently listening for the least sound which might convince me whether I was on the right track. A feverish fear possessed me that I was yet in rear of the Confederate pickets. The east was now clearly defined, so that my course was easy to choose--a northeasterly course, which I knew was very nearly the exact direction to the spot where I had left Jones.
At every yard of progress my fear subsided in proportion; every yard was increasing my distance from Branch's encampment, and rendering probability greater in my favour; I surely must be already in front of any possible picket-line.
The light increased, and the woods became less dense After going a hundred yards, I ceased to crawl. From behind one large tree I examined the ground ahead, and darted quickly to another. Soon I saw before me a fallen tree, and wondered if it might not conceal some vedette. Yet, if it did, the sentinel should be on my side of the tree. I stood for a few moments, intently searching it with my eyes. It was not more than fifteen yards from me, and directly in my course. At last, seeing nothing, I sprang quickly and was just about to lie down behind it, when a man rose from its other side. I did not lie down. He looked at me; I looked at him. He was unarmed. We were about eight feet apart. He began to recoil. There was light sufficient to enable me to tell from his dress that he was a rebel. Of course he would think me a Confederate. I stepped over the log.
"What are you doing here, sir?" I demanded, in a stern voice; "why are you not with your regiment?"
He said nothing to this. He was abashed. His eyes sought the ground.
"Why don't you answer me, sir?" I asked.
He replied timidly, "I am not doing any harm."
"What do you mean by being here at all?"
"I got lost in the woods last night," he said, "and went to sleep here, waiting for day."
"Then get back to your company at once," said I; "what is your regiment?"
"The Seventh," he replied.
"And your brigade?"
He looked up wonderingly at this, and I feared that I had made an unnecessary mistake through over-carefulness in trying to secure another corroboration of what I already knew well enough. I thought I could perceive his idea, and I added in an instant: "Don't you know that troops have come up in the night? What brigade is yours?"
"Branch's," he said.
"Then you will find your camp just in this direction," said I, pointing to the rear and left. He slunk away, seemingly well pleased to be quit at so cheap a cost.
Fearing that our voices had been heard by the pickets, I plunged through the bushes directly toward the east, and ran for a minute without pausing. Again the cold sweat was dropping from my face; again I had felt the mysterious mental agony attendant upon a too violent transition of personality. Perhaps it was this peculiar condition which pressed me to prolonged and unguarded energy. I went through thicket and brier patch, over logs and gullies, and when I paused I knew not where I was.
After some reflection I judged that I had pursued an easterly direction so far that Jones was now not to the northeast, but more to the north; I changed my course then, bending toward the north, and before sunrise reached the creek which, on the preceding night, I had crossed after leaving Jones. I did not know whether he was above me or below, so I crossed the stream at the place where I struck it, and went straight away from it through the swamp.
After going a long distance I began to fear that I was missing my course, and I did not know which way to turn. I whistled; there was no response.
No opening could be seen in any direction through the swamp. My present course had led me wrong; it would not do at all to go on; I should get farther and farther away from Jones. If I should assume any direction as the right one, I should be likely to have guessed wrong. I spent an hour working my way laboriously through the swamp, making wide and wider sweeps to reach some opening or some tree on higher ground. At last I saw open ground on my left. I went rapidly to it, and found a field, with a fence separating it from the woods,--the fence running east and west,--and saw, several hundred yards toward the west, the corner of the field at which I had stationed Jones.
At once I began to go rapidly down the hill toward the place. As I came near, I saw both horses prick their ears. Jones was sitting on the ground, with his gun in his lap, alert toward the west; I was in his rear. Suddenly he, too, saw the movement of the horses; he sprang quickly to a tree, from behind which I could now see the muzzle of his gun ten paces off. I whistled. The gun dropped, and Jones advanced, frightened.
"I came in an ace of it," he said, in a loud whisper; "why didn't you signal sooner?"
"To tell you the truth, I did not think of it in time, Jones; I am glad to see you so watchful."
"I should never have recognized you in that plight," said he; "what have you done with your other clothes?"
"Had to throw them away."
"Well! I certainly had no notion of seeing you come back as you are--and from that direction."
This was the first time I had seen myself as a Confederate standing with a Union soldier. In the night, mixed with the rebels, I had felt no visible contrast with them. Since I had left the wagon I had had no time for thought of personal appearance. Now I looked at myself. My hands were scratched with briers; my hat was torn; a great hole was over one knee, which I had used most in crawling. I was muddy to my knees, having been more rapid than cautious in crossing the creek. For more than twenty-four hours my mind had been on too great a strain to think of the body. By the side of me, Jones looked like a glittering general questioning an uncouth rebel prisoner. He smiled, but I did not.
"Now, let us mount and ride," said I; "we can eat as we go. The horses have had an all night's rest, and I can notify you that I need one, but it won't do to stay here. I know all that we need to know."
We decided that we should return to Old Church by the route which we had followed in coming. As we rode, I described to Jones the position and force of the enemy, so that, if I should be taken and he left, he could report to General Morell. We avoided the fields and roads, and stuck to the woods, keeping a sharp lookout ahead, but going rapidly. At the first water which we saw I took time to give my head a good souse.
Near the middle of the forenoon we came out upon the hills above Crump's Creek, and were about to descend when we heard a noise at our left, seemingly the galloping of horses. We dismounted, and I crept toward the road until I could see part of it winding over the hill. About twenty-five or thirty rebel cavalry--to be exact, they numbered just twenty-seven, as I counted--were on the road, going at a gallop up the hill, and apparently excited--running from danger, I thought. They disappeared over the hill. I thought it quite likely that some of our cavalry were advancing on the road, and that it would be well for me to wait where I was; if I should go back and call Jones to come, our men might pass while I was gone.
In a short time I saw in the road, going westward at a slow walk, another body of cavalry. These men, to my astonishment, were armed with lances. My surprise gave way to pleasure, for I remembered much talk in the army concerning a Pennsylvania regiment of lancers.
As I could see, also, that the men were in Federal uniform, I boldly left my place of concealment and walked out into the road. The cavalry halted. The captain, or officer in command, whom I shall here call Captain Lewis, although that was not his name, rode out a little to the front of his men, and said, "So you have given it up?"
"No, sir," said I; "to the contrary, I have made a success of it."
"Well, we shall see about that," he exclaimed; "here! get up behind one of my men. We want you."
For me to go with the cavalry and show them the plain road before their eyes, was ridiculous. As I hesitated, the captain cried out, "Here, Sergeant, take two men and carry this man to the rear!"
"Captain, please don't be so fast," said I; "one of my comrades is near by with our horses--" I was going to say more, but he interrupted me, crying, "We intend to pay our respects to all your comrades. No more from you, sir!"
As I showed no willingness to mount behind a man, the sergeant and detail marched me down the road. I endeavoured to talk to the sergeant, but he refused to hear me.
This affair had puzzled me, and it continued to puzzle me for a short while, but I soon saw what it meant, and saw why I had not understood from the first. My mind had been so fixed upon my direct duty that I had not once thought of my pretended character. For his part, the captain had supposed that I was a Confederate deserter coming into the Union lines. This was now simple enough, but why, under such circumstances, he had not questioned me in regard to what was in his front, I could not at all understand. I tried again to speak, but was commanded to be silent.
This was a ludicrous experience, though unpleasant. My only serious consideration was in regard to Jones. I feared that he would wait for me indefinitely, and would be captured. Although such a result could bring no blame to me, yet I was very anxious about him. Concerning myself, I knew that I could suffer restraint but a very short time; just so soon as I could get speech with any officer willing to listen, I should be set right.
The sergeant and his two men marched me back nearly to Hawes's shop, some two miles beyond Crump's Creek, where I was brought before Colonel Tyler, who was in command of two or three infantry regiments which had advanced from Old Church on that morning.
Colonel Tyler was the centre of a group of officers; the regiments were under arms. The sergeant in charge of me reported that I was a Confederate deserter, whom the Pennsylvania cavalry had found in the woods beyond Crump's Creek. Colonel Tyler nodded, and began to question me.
"When did you leave your regiment?"
"On the 22d, Colonel," I replied.
"That is a long time to lie out in the woods," said he; "now be sure that your memory is right. What day of the month is this?"
"The 24th, I think, sir."
"And it has taken you two days to come a few miles?"
"From what place, Colonel?"
"Why, from Hanover."
"No, sir; it has taken me but a few hours."
"What is your regiment?"
"The Eleventh Massachusetts, Colonel."
The colonel smiled. Then he looked angry. Then he composed his countenance.
"Have you any idea what is the matter with this man, Sergeant?"
The sergeant shook his head. "I don't know anything about it, Colonel. I only know that we took the man as I have said. He tried to talk to Captain Lewis, but the captain thought it best to send him back at once."
"You insist on belonging to the--what regiment did you say?"
"The Eleventh Massachusetts, sir," said I, unable to restrain a smile.
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I was brought here much against my will, Colonel."
"But what were you doing when you were captured?"
"I have not been captured, Colonel; when I came to meet the lancers, I was returning from a scout."
"What brigade do you belong to?"
"General Grover's."
"What division?"
"General Hooker's."
"Where is your regiment now?"
"Near Bottom's Bridge, Colonel," I said; then added, "it was there on the 21st; where it is now I cannot say."
The colonel saw that I was a very remarkable Confederate deserter; he was beginning to believe my story; his tone altered.
"But why are you in Confederate uniform?"
"Colonel," said I, "I have been sent out by order, and I was just returning when our cavalry met me. I tried to explain, but they would not listen to me. The officer threatened me and would not let me speak."
The colonel looked puzzled. "Have you anything to prove that you are a Union soldier?"
"No, sir," said I, "not a thing. It would be dangerous for me to carry anything of that kind, sir. All I ask is to be sent to General Morell."
"Where is General Morell?"
"On the reserve line near New Bridge."
"Why send you to General Morell?"
"Because I must make my report to him."
"Did he send you out?"
"Yes, sir."
"How is it that you are attached to General Grover and also to General Morell?"
"Well, Colonel, that is something I do not like to talk about, but it is perfectly straight. If you will send me under guard to General Morell, the whole matter will be cleared up to your satisfaction. I beg you to do so at once. I know that General Morell will consider my report important, and will be disappointed if it should be delayed, sir."
"Not yet," said he; "but I will send him a description of your person. I shall want you here in case General Morell does not claim you and justify your claims."
"But if General Morell does not justify me, I am a rebel, and what would you do with me?"
"If you are a rebel, you are a deserter or a spy, and you say you are not a deserter; if you are either, General Morell does not need you."
"Colonel," said I, "would not a rebel spy be an idiot to come voluntarily into the Union lines dressed as I am dressed?"
"One cannot be too careful," said he. "You claim to be a Union man, but you cannot prove it."
"Then, Colonel, since you refuse to send me back to General Morell, I beg that you at once send back for my companion."
"What companion?"
"His name is Jones. He was chosen by General Morell to accompany me. He is near the spot where I met the lancers. He has both of our horses, and I fear he will wait too long for me, and be captured."
"By the lancers?"
"No, sir, by the rebels. He has on his own Federal uniform."
"But why did you not tell me this before?"
"Because I wanted you first to consent to send me to General Morell; you refuse, and I now tell you about Jones. He can justify me to you; but time is lost in getting to General Morell, sir."
Colonel Tyler wrote something and handed it to the sergeant, who at once went off, accompanied by his two men.
"What force of the enemy is in our front?" asked the colonel.
"My report is to be made to General Morell, Colonel."
"But if I order you to report to me?"
"Do you recognize me as a Union soldier, Colonel?"
"What has that got to do with it?"
"You would hardly have the right to command a rebel spy to betray his cause," said I.
"But you may be a rebel deserter," said he, smiling.
"If I were a rebel deserter, why should I not claim to be one, after having reached safety?"
"But you may have intended to go home, or you may have been lost, and if so you are properly a prisoner of war."
"How should a lost rebel know what I know about the composition of the Union army?"
"I know your case seems pretty strong; but why not give me the benefit of your knowledge? Some of my men are now almost in the presence of the enemy."
"General Morell advised me to report only to him, unless our advanced troops should be in any danger."
"Then I tell you that we are in danger. We contemplate attacking a small force, but we don't want to run our heads into a hornet's nest."
"Well, Colonel, since you put it so, I will answer you."
"What force is in our front?"
"There are six or seven regiments of infantry and a battery. There are cavalry, also; several hundred, I presume."
"And where are they?"
"The cavalry?"
"The whole force of which you speak."
"They were at Hanover Court-House all last night, and until day this morning, I cannot say that they have not moved since."
"Do you know who commands them?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who is it?"
"General Branch."
"Did you see him?"
"No, sir."
"How then do you know that he is in command?"
"I see that I misunderstood your question, Colonel. I do not know that General Branch is present with his brigade, but I do know that the troops at Hanover compose Branch's brigade."
"How did you learn it? A man told you?"
"Three different men, of different regiments, told me."
"Well, that ought to be accepted," said he.
I was allowed to remain at my ease near the circle of officers. It was easy to see that Colonel Tyler was almost convinced that I was telling the truth.
In about an hour the sergeant returned without the two men, and accompanied by Jones, who was leading my horse, and who at once handed the colonel a paper. I was immediately released, and in little more than two hours reached the camp of General Morell, and made my report.
General Morell expressed gratification at my quick return with valuable results. He told me that General Hooker's command had not moved, and that he would gladly send a statement of my work to General Grover, and would say that I would be found with Dr. Khayme until actually ordered back to the left. He then told me to go back to my quarters and rest; that I must get all the rest I could, and as quickly as possible.
Although the day was quite warm, I put my gum-blanket over me, to shield my gray clothes from the gaze of the curious. I was soon at Dr. Khayme's tent. Without thinking, I entered at once, throwing off the hot blanket. Lydia sprang up from a camp-stool, and raised her hands; in an instant she sat again, trembling. She was very white.
"I did not know you," she said; "yet I ought to have known you: Father prepared me; but we did not expect you before to-morrow, at the earliest." She was still all a-tremble.
"I am sorry that I startled you so; but I was so eager to hide from all eyes that I did not think of anything else. Where is the Doctor?"
"He had a case to attend to somewhere--I don't know where it is; he said he should be back to supper."
Lydia was getting ready to leave the tent. "I suppose you have had hard work," said she, "and I shall leave you, yet I so wish to know what success you have had."
"Then stay, and I will tell you about it," said I.
"Only tell me whether you succeeded," she said.
"Yes, I succeeded. I went into the rebel camp and remained all night with a brigade of them. I know all that I was sent to learn."
"Oh, Father will be so glad!" she said; "now I will let you rest till he comes, although I should like to hear all about it."
"But you will not hinder me by remaining," I exclaimed; "to be plain with you, I had to throw away my uniform, and you see me with all the clothes I've got."
She laughed; then, hanging her head a little, she said, "You need rest, though, and I'll see if I cannot help you while you get some sleep."
When she had gone I lay down and closed my eyes, but sleep would not come. After a time I heard voices, and then I saw a black hand open the tent door and lay a package on the ground. I got up, and saw my name on the package, which proved to contain a new uniform. I dressed and went out. The Doctor's negro servant was cooking supper. I asked him who gave him the package he had put into the tent. He said, "Miss Liddy she done sont me wid a note to de ginnle en' de ginnle he gimme anudda' note en' dat man he gimme de bunnle."
The Doctor came while the table was being spread. I gave a detailed account of my work, his little eyes twinkling with interest as I talked, and Lydia saying not a word.
When I had ended, I said, "And I have to thank Miss Lydia for her interest in a ragged rebel; she had the forethought, while I was trying to sleep, to make a requisition in my behalf; see my new uniform, Doctor?"
"I'll give her a kiss for showing her good sense," said her father.
Lydia smiled. "You looked so forlorn--or so tattered and torn--that I pitied you; I wrote a note to General Morell, not knowing what else to do."
"Did he reply?" I asked, thinking wildly, at the time, of the conclusion of the celebrated romance called "The House that Jack Built."
"Yes," said she; "you may keep the uniform, and I'll keep the note. I am thinking that I'll become a collector of autographs."
"Why didn't you let that Confederate, whom you found behind the log, come with you?" asked the Doctor; "do you not think that he was trying to desert?"
"I thought so, Doctor," said I; "but I feared to be encumbered with him. Speed was what I wanted just then."
"I suppose you were right," said he; "if he wants to come, he can come."
"I don't think such a man should have been trusted at all," said Lydia; "if he would betray his own people, why should he not betray us?"
"Let us not condemn him unjustly; possibly he was telling the simple truth," said the Doctor.
"In that case," said I, "I should have caught a Tartar if I had accepted his company."
"One more thing," said the Doctor; "in talking to Captain Lewis,"--the Doctor did not say Lewis, but called the officer by his name,--"in talking to Captain Blank, why did you not raise your voice loud enough for Jones to hear you? That would have relieved you at once."
"That is true, Doctor; but I did not understand the situation at all. Yes, if I had known what he was driving at, a call to Jones would have settled matters."
"I doubt it," said Lydia; "the captain might have thought you were Roderick Dhu."
"That man must be somewhat idiotic," said the Doctor; "in fact, all those lancers are what we mildly term unfortunates. I suspect that the captain had begun to realize the impotency of his command in front of Enfield rifles. I fancy that he was frightened, and that he blustered to hide his scare."
It was getting late. Lydia retired to her own apartment. The Doctor had smoked and smoked; his pipe had gone out, and he did not fill it again. He rose. "You can get sleep now, my boy; you have done a good day's work, or rather a good night's work sandwiched between two days. General Morell ought to reward you."
"I do not want any reward," said I.
"You would not like a commission?" he asked.
"I don't know what good it would do me," said I.
"It would do you no harm," he said; "it would be an advantage to you in many ways. You would fare better; your service might not be really lighter, but you would command more respect from others. That captain of the lancers will not think of apologizing to you; but if he knew you as Lieutenant Berwick, he would be quick to write you a note. If promotion is offered you,--and it ought to be offered,--you ought not to refuse it."
"Doctor," said I, "I am not ambitious--at least, in that way."
On the night of the 25th I was again sent for by General Morell.
"Berwick," said he, "I trust you are able to do some more hard work. Have you had a good rest?"
I was unwilling to say that I had not; yet the fact was that I had suffered greatly, and had not regained condition.
"One good turn deserves another," said he, laughing; "so you must help me out again; but don't doubt for a moment that your turn will come, too, some day."
"Well, General," said I, "what's in the wind this time?"
"Sit here," said he, "while I get the map. Your report has been fully corroborated. General Branch's brigade or division, of some six to ten regiments and a battery, is at Hanover Court-House, or was there last night, and is supposed to be there now. A division of this army will march against Branch. Now I will show you what you must do for us. Here," pointing on the map to a road running south, along the railroad from Hanover Court-House, "here you see the road you were on with the wagons. At this point--a mile and a half or two miles southeast of Hanover--is the road running down the river--the road you followed after crossing Crump's Creek. The force which will march against Branch will be sufficient to crush him, and we must prevent him from escaping in the direction of Richmond. Therefore, our attack is arranged to fall on his right. Now don't make a mistake and be thinking of our right--his right--here. If we can get around his right, we can drive him into the Pamunkey River. If we should attack on his left, we should simply drive him toward Richmond."
"Yes, sir; I see," said I.
"Now, it is quite possible that he has taken a new position and nearer Richmond. It is even possible that he has advanced a considerable distance nearer Richmond; but it is not likely, as he has been put where he is for the purpose of observing our right and rear until he is reënforced. On the 23d, we occupied Mechanicsville, and our possession of that place may have so interfered with or so threatened Branch's plans that he will make some movement. The truth is, to be frank with you, he is in a false position, and ought to return to Hanover Junction at once and unite there with Anderson's force, which has begun its march from Fredericksburg to Richmond, or else he ought to join Johnston's army without delay. I am telling you these things because I want you to understand the situation thoroughly, in order to help you, and because I think I can trust you."
"Well, General?"
"Knowing our plans, you will be better able to decide what to do in a critical moment."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, what we want to know is the true point upon which our attack should be directed. If we march straight on Hanover Court-House, and find that the rebels have left that place and have moved further south, we shall be attacking their left instead of their right, and they can retreat toward Richmond. In case they have moved south, we must not march on the Court-House; we must attack their right, wherever that may be. Now, that is what you must do for us: find out where Branch's right flank rests before we make the attack."
"Then I must precede your march by no great distance."
"Exactly."
"When do you march, General?"
"We march on the 27th, day after to-morrow, at daylight. You will have to-night and to-morrow and until the middle of the next day."
"I can see one thing, General."
"What is that?"
"When I find the enemy's right, I must hang to it for fear of its moving after I report."
"Very well; hang to it."
"And I must have help, so that I can send reports to you while I do hang to it."
"As much help as you want."
"Have you another man as good as Jones?"
"There is no better man than Jones; you want only two?"
"I think Jones and another will do, if the other man can be thoroughly depended upon."
"You can have as many men as you want, as many horses as you want, and anything else that you want--speak out."
"Why don't you have a company of cavalry to do this work for you, General?"
"A company of cavalry! They wouldn't get within a mile of Branch!"
"Simply because they would be too many," said I; "all I want is Jones and another man as good as Jones; if no such man can be found, I want only Jones."
"What would be your plans?"
"I should report by the third man the first information of importance; then report by Jones when we find Branch's right; hang to it myself, and report if it moves. You will need to know where Branch's right is at the moment when you are ready to strike--not where it was an hour before."
"Right," said he; "you shall have Jones the second if he can be found."
"We must not risk a common man, General; better do without such a man. He might get himself caught and endanger your whole plan."
"I think we can find a good man. Now, before we leave this, I must tell you that Colonel Warren's brigade will join in the movement. Warren is now at Old Church; he will march by the road that you were on yesterday, while we march upon roads at his left. You understand?"
"Yes, General."
"Then that is all."
"May I say a word, General?"
"Yes; certainly."
"I trust Colonel Warren's movement will be delayed. He has a shorter distance to make. If the rebels get wind of his movement before they know of yours, they will almost be sure to change position."
"That has been thought of," said he; "and Warren is instructed not to attack until everything is ready. However, I shall speak to General Porter again about this."
"Can I see Jones, General?"
"Yes; I can send him to you. When do you start?"
"To-morrow morning, sir."
"At what hour?"
"After breakfast."
"Can you think of nothing else you need?"
"I should like to have a good field-glass, General."
"Nothing else?"
"Some tobacco--chewing tobacco; I should not trouble you about that, but I know that Dr. Khayme has none."
"What do you want with the tobacco?" he asked, laughing.
"A man asked me for some, night before last," said I, "and I could not help him."
"And you want to find him and give it to him?" he asked, yet laughing.
"Oh, no, sir; but I thought I might find another occasion for it."
"Well, I'll send it through Jones."
"Let it be common plug tobacco, if you please."
"Just as you wish. Now, here is your glass. It is one of my own, or rather it was mine; it is yours hereafter."
"Thank you, General; I think it will be of great use. Is there anything about it to betray me?"
"No; it is English, and has no private mark. You are sure you have thought of everything?"
"I think so, General; if anything important occurs to my mind before we start, I'll let you know."
"Be sure to do it."
Jones came about eight o'clock. He told me that he and a man named Frank were ordered to go with me. Frank, as well as Jones, I learned, was chosen from the escort of General Porter. I told Jones what we should need, and he promised to be ready.
In Dr. Khayme's tent there was not much talk that night. Lydia sat silent and seemingly depressed. The Doctor said that our left wing had crossed the Chickahominy. Nobody responded. Then he tried to start an argument about the loss of spiritual power caused by war, but meeting no encouragement from me, gave it up. The truth is that I needed rest and sleep. When the Doctor had had his first smoke, Lydia rose and took his pipe from him. "We must tell Mr. Berwick good night, Father. He has work to do to-morrow."
The Doctor laughed; but he rose at once, protesting that Lydia was right. Lydia did not laugh.
Sleep came to me soon, and the next morning I felt greatly refreshed. While at breakfast, which the Doctor alone joined in with me, Jones and Frank rode up. I hastened to end the meal, and we soon were off.
I had made up my mind that if possible we should strike across the Virginia Central, some miles south of Hanover Court-House, and work our way toward the Confederate right and rear.
We crossed the Totopotomoy Creek near Pole Green Church, far above the place where Jones and I had crossed it on the 23rd, and then took to the woods up the creek swamp, the head of which, I had ascertained from the map, was at the west of the railroad. We were now on neutral ground. The usual order of our advance was Jones in the lead, I following him at not more than forty yards, and Frank coming behind me at more than twice that distance. Jones was directed to halt and ride back every time that he should see anything suspicious. Only once, however, did he have occasion to observe this order. It was when we were approaching the Totopotomoy; we were in a considerable thicket and had closed up in order to keep each his leader in sight; Jones was ahead of me about fifteen steps. I saw him suddenly pull up his horse sharp; then he waved his hand at me and came riding back. At his first motion I had pulled up. When Jones had reached me, he said, "There is smoke in front."
I beckoned to Frank to come on. We conferred. Jones had heard no noise, but had seen a thin line of smoke rising through the trees, which, he said, were larger and less dense just ahead. Jones was directed to dismount and to approach the smoke until he could learn what caused it. He returned very soon, and said there was a house in a small field just before us, and that a wide road ran in front of the house. We made a detour and passed on.
About six in the afternoon we reached a road running north, the road, as I supposed, from Richmond to Hanover. We were now about halfway between Hanover Court-House and the railroad bridge across the Chickahominy, and still in the Totopotomoy swamp, or that of one of its branches. We crossed the road, selecting a place where there were two sudden bends, and looking well both ways before venturing. After crossing, I directed Jones to take his stand near the lower bend, and Frank to watch the road from the upper bend, while I threw sand on the tracks our horses had made in crossing the road. We were now within less than a mile of the Virginia Central railroad.
I directed Frank to keep watch on the Hanover road, and went with Jones toward the railroad, and stationed him near it, or rather as far from it as he could be and yet see it. Then I returned to Frank and took his place, directing him to find Jones and then occupy a position as nearly as possible halfway between Jones and me. Frank's duties were to connect me with Jones and to care for the three horses, which were brought together in the centre lest they should be heard. We were now in position to observe any movement by rail or by road between Richmond and Hanover Court-House, and I decided to remain here for the most of the night.
From my position I could hear trains moving, in my rear, but for half the night Jones reported nothing. He could understand, of course, that I could hear the trains. Rain had set in at nightfall.
About an hour after midnight I heard troops marching north up the road. I crept up nearer, and, although it was dark and raining, I could make out that they were cavalry--perhaps as many as a company. I concluded that the rebels were to the north of us, that is to say, that if they had moved at all, they were yet between us and Hanover Court-House.
After the cavalry had passed, I thought the situation very much more definite. I went to Frank, and directed him to call in Jones. The three of us then made north, through the woods, leading our horses. We had a hard time. The woods were wet, the branches of the trees struck our faces. There was hardly enough light to see the trunks of the trees. At last we reached an opening through which I feared to advance.
We could see no light from camp-fires in any direction. The rebels were yet far to the north, but their cavalry patrols might be anywhere--might be upon us at any moment.
Giving Frank my bridle, I crept up to the road, and was glad to find that the woods on the east side of it extended on toward the north. I returned to my comrades and together we crossed the road and continued north in the woods on the east side for perhaps half a mile. It was now nearly day, and still raining. In the wet woods on this dark night there was little fear of encountering any enemy; their cavalry pickets would be in the roads.
I believed that Hanover Court-House was less than five miles from us, and that if Branch's camp had been moved southward, we ought soon to see the light of his camp-fires.
Again there was an open field, with a descending slope ahead of us. I directed Jones to mount and follow me, while Frank should halt, with his horse and mine to guard, at the top of the hill. I went forward on foot, Jones riding some ten paces in my rear. At the bottom of the hill I found a small stream. Bidding Jones return to Frank and bring him and all the horses up to the branch, I went up the next hill, still in the open. At the top of the hill I found a straggling thicket of small pines, not more than a hundred feet in width; from the far side of this thicket I saw more open ground before me. I went back, hoping to find my comrades at the branch. As I went down the hill I heard them coming down the opposite slope. They seemed to be making a great noise. One of the horses struck fire with his shoe against a stone. I was greatly alarmed, and decided at once to occupy the thicket of pines until daylight.
The horses were tied, and Frank was left to guard them and keep them from making a noise. Jones was directed to scout to the left as far as the road, and to return and examine the ground to our right for a few hundred yards; while he was engaged in this work I went forward nearly half a mile, going first over open ground, then through a thick but narrow skirt of woods, and coming out upon a hill from which I could see through the rain a dim light which I supposed was caused by camp-fires. A train of cars rumbled at my left, at a considerable distance--perhaps more than a mile away.
Returning to the horses I found Jones, who reported that the road was only some two hundred and fifty yards at our left, with woods on the other side of it, and that on our right there was nothing but a wood which extended to a swamp.
Frank and Jones were told to snatch what sleep they could; they rolled themselves in their gum-blankets and lay under a thick pine bush. The rain was pouring down.
At the first sign of day I woke the men. We silently made our way across the road, leading the horses; I knew that the rain would soon, wash out all our tracks. I now believed that Branch had moved southward some miles, increasing his distance from the Pamunkey.
We took a hasty and disagreeable meal; then we divided our forces again. Jones was near the railroad, I near the road, and Frank in the centre. We moved northward, stopping every hundred yards or so, to be certain that our communications were intact. Jones was so near the railroad that I began to think the train of cars I had heard running had not been on the Central, but farther away on the Fredericksburg railroad, which in this place runs almost parallel with the Central and some miles to the westward. In the close wet atmosphere the sounds must have come from a greater distance than I had first thought. This reflection made me suspect that there were no trains running on the Central railroad,--for we should have heard them, and Jones would have seen them,--and I decided to get on the west side of it and endeavour to make my way toward the rear of the enemy's camp.
It was not yet the hour of sunrise when we got across the railroad. We still hugged the woods, going north, with the railroad at our right at distances varying from one hundred to three hundred yards. We ascended a low hill, from which there might have been a good lookout but for the rain. I used General Morell's glass, but could not make out anything in front.
Suddenly we heard the beating of drums, seemingly not more than half a mile to the north of us. I thought that the enemy's pickets must be very near to us.
Again I dismounted and crept forward alone, bidding both men keep a close watch in all directions, and be in constant readiness to bring me my horse at a moment's warning, for I knew the possibility of detection and pursuit. Descending a low hill, I found at the bottom of it a small brook flowing northeastward, and changed my course at once to suit the stream. I went slowly and cautiously on through weeds and bushes, sometimes wading down the stream itself, the water being already very muddy from the rains, and at last, while bending to right and left and up and down seeking vision ahead through the thicket, I saw before me an infantry vedette a very short distance in front. He was facing south, and I know from his position, seeing that he was on the west side of the railroad, that Branch's division or brigade had moved from Hanover Court-House, or else that here was another body of men who had taken position on his right.
Retracing my steps as rapidly as possible, I returned to the hill, and directed Frank to ride with all consistent speed to General Morell or General Porter, who would no doubt be met advancing on the road, and report that the enemy had taken such a position that in order to reach his right flank it would be necessary for the Union troops to cross to the west side of the Central railroad some miles south of Hanover Court-House. I directed him to report also my doubt as to whether Branch had really moved or had been reënforced, and to say that I should endeavour at once to resolve this doubt, and to report again through Jones.
Frank rode away on his mission. It was about seven o'clock.
I put on the gray uniform. A lump came into my throat when I saw that all the rents had been mended, but I had no time to give to sentiment.
My glass was slung over my shoulder beneath the gum-blanket, with which I had been covered all night as a protection from the rain. I took nothing else with me except my canteen. I directed Jones to remain where he was, and if I should not return in one hour, to conclude that I was entangled with the enemy, and that I could not get away in time; that he must assume from my absence that the rebel right extended far, because if it did not I should return to him; in one hour, therefore, he must start to meet our advancing troops; in that case he was not to encumber himself with my horse; I might be able to get back to the spot later in the day. I added that I seriously doubted my ability to get back before the advance of the Union troops should reach the ground, and impressed upon Jones the necessity of communicating with General Morell before dispositions for attack had gone too far. He comprehended the situation, and promised to follow my instructions.
Again I crept up to the spot from which I had seen the vedette; he was yet there, still facing south. His line, therefore, stretched across the branch. I retired a hundred yards or more to a gully which favoured me, and crept to my left up the hill. At the top of the hill I entered thicker woods. I stood behind a tree, and looked and listened. Drums could be heard toward the north, and seemingly nearer than before; I thought I could hear the long roll, and feared that the Union advance was already known by the Confederates.
Now I got on my hands and knees, and began to crawl forward very slowly. My gum-blanket hindered me; I took it off, put my glass in it, folded and strapped it, and put it over my shoulder. I was already wet. Again I went forward slowly. Soon I saw another vedette, facing south. I retired, and made progress rapidly through the woods to my left; then I crawled up a long distance. I had hoped to be able to determine the right of the enemy's pickets and then return to Jones and send him with my report, while I should remain at the rendezvous to guide the troops when Jones should have succeeded in guiding them to me. But I had found the pickets posted in a very advantageous position for themselves, and a very difficult one for me; more than an hour had passed since I left Jones; he was already on his way. It took long for me to make a prudent approach. As soon as I could see one of the vedettes, I would retreat through the woods until I was out of danger; then I would go fifty or a hundred yards to my left, and approach, again on my hands and knees until I discovered a man, when I would retreat again, and so on alternately. At one place I saw the picket-line itself stretching across the top of an open hill, with the vedettes concealed, no doubt, in the hollow in front. I was compelled to go almost entirely around a field, taking a back track for a quarter of a mile, and then going forward again on the west side of the field.
About ten o'clock the rain ceased, and while I was thus helped in one respect, I was hindered also. The pickets would be more alert, and I felt compelled to keep at a greater distance from the line. I made another advance, and this time continued advancing, for to my gratification I found no extension of the picket-line in front of me. I thought at first that it had been thrown back here, and that I was now going along the western front.
To make sure, I turned to the right--to the east--and went perhaps three hundred yards without finding anything, and felt convinced that there was no western front to the rebel line. I continued to advance eastward, going straight toward the railroad. At length I had gone a quarter of a mile, and had found nothing.
Now I began to believe that the rebel picket-line had been withdrawn while I was going around the field, and I conjectured that the Confederates had become aware of the approach of our column, and had retreated, or else were concentrating to meet our advancing troops.
Suddenly I heard a cannon fire, seemingly a mile away, in a southeasterly direction.
For a clear understanding of the situation it would perhaps be well to state here that both Frank and Jones had reached the cavalry under General Emory, at the head of our column, and had reported to him as well as to General Morell; and that our column had advanced by the road we had left, had thrown out a skirmish-line which extended beyond the railroad, but not far enough, and had continued to advance until the enemy were felt.
The cannon which I had heard, and which continued to fire, were of Benson's battery of U.S. artillery, and this was the beginning of the battle of Hanover Court-House, so called.
At this time one of Branch's regiments--the Twenty-eighth North Carolina under Colonel Lane--was at Taliaferro's Mill at the head of Crump's Creek, on a road to the right of our advancing column, which had thus interposed, without knowing it, between the two bodies of Confederates. At the first warning of the Union advance, General Branch had formed his troops facing the east and southeast, and covering the Ashcake road, which runs in a sort of semicircle from the Hanover road to Ashland on the west, so that the attack of the Union forces against the main body of rebels merely forced them to give ground in the direction of Ashland. Lane, at Taliaferro's Mill, was left to work his way out, which he did later in the afternoon with considerable loss.
Now, when the fight opened, the most of Branch's brigade--having moved somewhat forward--had placed itself between me and our troops. I soon became aware of this fact by seeing straggling Confederate soldiers in the woods in several directions; some of them seemed to be wounded.
Half a mile or so to the eastward the battle was loud. By this time it was a little after noon; the sun was hot. The sounds of battle were advancing toward the north. Straggling men went by me, giving me no attention whatever. I kept my position--not remaining still, however, but walking about in the woods in order to prevent the possibility of being suspected of trying to hide--and awaited the issue.
Soon the straggling had ceased, and the battle died away, and I began to fear that the Confederates had had the best of it.
An hour or so passed; then a new battle broke out in a southeasterly direction. This was caused by Branch's endeavouring to throw a force in the rear of the Union troops, who had pushed on nearly to Hanover Court-House in pursuit of Lane's regiment, leaving Branch on their left flank and in position to do great damage[2]. Branch attacked vigorously, but was eventually forced back. Again men began to rush by me, and this time some of them were in actual flight. There were many wounded; gradually the woods were scattered over with a regiment or two, the troops showing various degrees of disorganization, some of the companies holding together and retiring slowly, while men, single and in groups, were making their way, as rapidly as they could run, from the field, yet all in the same direction, as though they had some knowledge of a rallying-place.
[2] On this day Lane's regiment saved the remainder of Branch's brigade. The main body of Porter's column pursued Lane toward the Pamunkey, no doubt thinking that all the rebel force was retreating northward. Lane was entirely routed, and was cut off from Branch for some days; the story of his retreat and return to Branch is very interesting. [ED.]
Seeing this confusion of many men, my fear increased, and I decided quickly--whether right or wrong--that it would not do for me to remain an idle and unarmed spectator of the retreat; and I thought, too, that it would be very hazardous to attempt to get out of this mass of men by going in a northerly or southerly direction, either of which would be taking them in line, if they could be said to have a line. I saw, of course, that if I should simply stop--it would have been easy to play the wounded Confederate--the Union troops would soon pick me up; but I wanted to see where the defeated rebels would rally. A man, slightly wounded, I suppose, threw down his gun near me, and kept on. I picked up the gun--an Enfield rifle--and joined the fugitives. Unaccountably to me, the disorder of the troops became greater, and a good many of the stragglers disburdened themselves of whatever they could throw away. I soon secured a cartridge-box, and a haversack, and with my own canteen--the like of which there were many in the hands of the rebels--I became, for the time, a complete Confederate soldier.
No immediate cause for the disorder of the rebels could be seen. The Union troops were not in sight. I expected the brigade to soon make a stand, but the retreat continued; sometimes I caught the contagion and ran along with running men, although I was sure that organised bodies were now covering our rear. I had no distinct purpose except to determine the new line.
After some little time I began to wish that I was well out of the scramble, but I saw no way out of it. Officers were riding about and trying to make the men get into some sort of formation. Evening was near, but I saw that before darkness should cover me the brigade would be formed again and would make a new stand, or else retreat in better order in the night.
I now gave up all hope of ever returning to find my horse, but felt confident that Jones would recover him.
As I had anticipated, the retreat became less disorderly, and at last ceased altogether. The officers succeeded in forming a line across a road running to the westward, which I believed, from my knowledge of the map, to be the Ashcake road. When I reached this forming line I hesitated. I thought at first that I ought to make no pretence of joining it; that prudence commanded me to keep far from it. Then the thought came to me that these disorganized battalions ware forming in any shape they could now take--men belonging to different companies, and even to different regiments, being side by side; so I got into line with them.
I smiled when I remembered that Dr. Khayme had once said that a spy might find it his duty to desert to the enemy.
The men seemed to have lost none of the proper pride of the soldier, but they were very bitter against some general or other unknown to me, and equally so to them, as it appeared; he had allowed them to be defeated when they could easily have been reënforced. From the talk which I heard I drew the inference that there was a large force of Confederates within supporting distance, and this new knowledge or suspicion interested me so greatly that I determined to remain longer with these troops--perhaps even until the next day.
It was now dark. There had never been any pursuit, so far as I could see. Soon the troops were put in motion westward, on the road to Ashland. If we had a skirmish-line on either flank, I did not see it; but we had for rear-guard the Seventh North Carolina, still unbroken, under the command, as I learned, of Colonel Campbell. It would have been very easy for me to step out of ranks at any time, either to the right or to the left, into the woods--or into open ground for that matter--and get away, but such was not now my intention.
The retreat continued slowly, the mixed men endeavouring while on the march to find their respective regiments and companies. Mounted men--officers probably--rode up and down the column crying out: "Flag of Thirty-seventh is forward," "Flag of Forty-fifth is behind you," and so on, thus telling the men where to find their commands. It was really good work, I thought. A little before midnight--or it may have been much earlier, for I was well-nigh worn out--a halt was made at the crossroads which I afterward knew to be the crossing of the Ashcake and Richmond roads about a mile and a half southeast of Ashland. Here all the men could easily find their commands, and I knew that perfect organization would be effected in a very few minutes. Before the line was completely formed, I walked off and was at once alone in the darkness.
By the stars I was able to strike a course; I went nearly east for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and lay down under a tree, first spreading my gum-blanket on the wet ground. My weariness amounted almost to exhaustion. I was hungry, too, and began to explore my predecessor's haversack, but fell asleep while thinking of food, and slept soundly the remainder of the night.
At daylight I was awake. I ate some bacon and hoecake which I found in the haversack; while doing this, I took a good look at my gun and accoutrements. The rifle was a long Enfield with three bands; the cartridge-box and cap-box were slung to a single waist-belt, the scabbard for the bayonet also, but there was no bayonet. The brass plate on the lid of the cartridge-box was a U.S. plate; the belt-buckle also was Federal; both plate and buckle had been turned upside down, so that each bore the inverted letters S U. There were a few cartridges in the box--such cartridges as I had not seen before. I found that the rifle was not loaded, and I allowed it to remain empty.
After I had eaten, I crept nearer the crossroads. The rebels had gone. I examined the road and found that all the tracks in the mud were pointing toward Ashland. I followed on, keeping for a time openly in the road, for I was as good a Confederate as need be unless I should be overtaken by any of our own men. I considered now that this force of the enemy was likely to establish connection at once with the main Confederate lines near Richmond, if indeed it had not already done so, and that if I should turn southward I should be in danger of being forced into the ranks and questioned, so I decided to go north of Ashland, and determine if possible the left of the line, which would be, I judged, the extreme left of the whole Confederate army.
In approaching Ashland I had no trouble; when I came in sight of the village I began to make a detour to the north, and about an hour after sunrise placed myself in observation between the Fredericksburg railroad and the Richmond road, which here run parallel due north and about half a mile apart. I was facing south.
About nine o'clock in the morning I was surprised to see to the rear of my left the Richmond road full of troops marching southward. I crawled up as near to the road as I dared, and watched them. There seemed to be but one regiment, which was a large one. Three or four officers rode at the head of the regiment; one, who I supposed was the colonel, was a large, heavy-built man who sat his horse proudly[3]. The men marched at the route step; the regiment was in fine order. In the centre were two flags: one an ordinary Confederate battle-flag; the other an immense blue banner, emblazoned with the silver palmetto tree. I could not tell the number of the regiment, although by this time I had my glass fixed on the flag. The Carolinians passed on south and, I supposed, entered Ashland.
[3] Doubtless Colonel Hamilton, who on this day marched south from Hanover Junction with his regiment, the First South Carolina. [Ed.]
I still kept my place, observing the roads narrowly. I remained in this position the rest of the 28th, but saw no other movement. At nightfall I crept up nearer to the village and found a comfortable resting-place in an old haystack, east of the place.
The next morning I was slowly advancing toward the railroad, with the purpose of ascertaining whether Ashland was still occupied by the rebels, when I heard noises behind me, and, turning, I saw three Union soldiers on horseback coming toward me. They saw me at the same time. One of them shouted to me to surrender, and I threw up my hands. They belonged to Company D of the Fifth U.S. cavalry. I easily succeeded in proving to the lieutenant in command, who soon rode up at the head of the company, and whose name I learned was Watkins, that I was a Union scout. The sight of General Morell's glass had its effect.
I told the lieutenant that in my opinion there was no strong force in Ashland. We were at this time almost in sight of the town. The lieutenant mounted me behind a trooper; the company made a dash into the place; the rebels fled, leaving two of their pickets in our hands. In the village were some stragglers who also were made prisoners. We remained in Ashland for several hours, the cavalry securing much property. There were a good many horses taken, one of which the lieutenant willingly allowed me to use.
The enemy's infantry had retreated nearer Richmond, and, as all the country to the east of us was now in our hands, there was nothing to hinder my reaching General Morell's camp that night. The general told me that they had given me up for lost, and asked what had become of me after sending Jones back. I gave an account of my work, and he was pleased to say that he approved of what I had done. He told me that Jones had recovered the horse that I had abandoned.
As I approached Dr. Khayme's tent, the Doctor was just entering it; the tent was dark. I stood outside until he lighted a candle; then I called him by name. He rushed out and embraced me. In a few words I told him of my work, and why I had been away so long.
"I will write at once to General Grover," said he, "and to Lydia, too, who is at Porter's field hospital; we have many wounded from your battle."
The night of my return was the 29th of May, 1862. I was very tired, although I had had a good rest the night before, and alternations of walking and riding in the day. Our supper was soon despatched, and the Doctor got his pipe.
"Now, Jones, pull off that distinguished disguise and put on your own dress; there it is in the corner, just as your namesake brought it."
"No, Doctor," said I; "let's save labour by not doing it; I can content myself till bedtime as I am."
"How long have you had it on?"
"Almost two days."
"Don't you begin to feel like a Confederate?"
"Not just at this moment, Doctor."
"So you have been with North Carolinians and with Georgians again?"
"Yes, and very nearly with South Carolinians."
"You mean the regiment with the blue flag?"
"Yes; I wish I could have learned its number."
"It was the First, very likely," said he.
This seemed a most astonishing statement, although I had many times before had evidences of peculiar knowledge possessed by Dr. Khayme. I thought it was the time to ask him, directly, how it was that he obtained information unobtainable by ordinary mortals.
"Why should you think so, Doctor?"
"Because of more than one circumstance. Before communications with our Southern friends became so infrequent I kept up with Charleston. I know that the First South Carolina regiment was on Sullivan's Island early in 1861, some months before the bombardment of Fort Sumter, and I remember reading in the Mercury that the ladies of Charleston had presented the First with a very heavy blue silk banner--a State flag with the silver palmetto and crescent."
"Then it may be the First regiment, Doctor; I saw the palmetto and the crescent."
"More than that," he continued; "the First South Carolina is one of the regiments which were lately under Anderson near Fredericksburg, and we know that Anderson's force has fallen back on Richmond. It must have passed through Ashland very recently."
"I wonder if there are any men in that regiment whom we used to know," said I, musingly.
"Very likely; there are companies in it from Charleston."
"Wouldn't it have been strange if I had gone with them, and somebody had recognized me?"
"Stranger things than that might happen to you; somebody might have recognized you--some old schoolmate, for example--and yet might have sworn that you are a Carolinian. Was it known to everybody at school that you were from the North?"
"I think it was, at first; but not in my last years there; of course, some of the boys knew it."
"Besides," said the Doctor, "there is more than one Northern man in the Confederate army--men who moved South before the war."
"Yes, I suppose so; but I cannot understand them."
"They have acquired homes, and think they must defend their homes; that is all, at least so far as concerns those of them who reason, and the others don't count."
"They might at least be neutral," I said.
"How could they think that being neutral would defend their homes?"
"And you think that the Southern people really believe their homes in danger?"
"No doubt of it--and they are right. Have you not already seen more than one Southern home destroyed?"
"Yes, here where the war is; but the average home in the South, far away from the armies."
"There will have been very few homes in the South far away from armies; to conquer the South you must overrun her territory."
"Doctor, you are gloomy to-night, and I confess that I am also. I wonder what's the matter with us."
"I don't admit being unusually gloomy," said the Doctor; "true, I have been seeing pain and wretchedness recently, and so have you. Our trades, however, ought to have accustomed us to such by this time, if ever."
"I don't think I should ever become accustomed to blood; I don't wish to," said I.
"You need never fight another battle," said he.
"How can I avoid battle?" I asked.
"Your services as a scout are worth more than forty cents a day; you ought not to fight at all."
"You think fighting more dangerous than scouting?"
"Fighting and scouting are more dangerous than scouting."
"But what can I do? If I am recalled by General Grover, I shall likely be required to do both."
"I think not. They want you to remain alive. Unless you join the Confederates again, as you did in the battle the other day, it is not very likely that you will serve any more in the ranks; of course, you can do so if you insist upon it."
"Insist on what? Joining the Confederates?"
"No; insist on fighting in the ranks."
"I should feel it my duty to go into battle with the Eleventh unless I had other work at the time."
"Do you think it your duty to give your best powers to your cause, or your poorest?"
"Can I not do both?"
"No--not at all; you should study your important calling, and make an art of it."
"I dread it; to believe that I must become a regular spy is a terrible thought to me."
"Why so?"
"Well, Doctor, you know that I am peculiar."
"You allude to your memory?"
"Yes."
"What effect does spying have upon you?"
"It seems to weaken me, body and mind. I was never so exhausted in my life as when I came back on the 24th."
"You had had a hard time, no doubt."
"But it was not merely a hard time; it was a peculiar time. I believe that for a short while I lost sight of the fact that I was a Union soldier."
"That only shows that you acted your part."
"The sudden changes are what I find so hard. To imagine myself a Confederate, and then in a moment to become a Federal, and in the next moment by effort become a rebel again, is revolutionary."
"Very likely."
"I'd prefer being in the ranks."
"Do you believe that your peculiar condition is what makes your sufferings?"
"I know it. The vivid result of my imagination is suddenly contrasted with as vivid a memory; before I quit being one man I become another, and I can see two of me at once."
"And that proves painful?"
"It is torture. If I am to imagine myself a Confederate in order to succeed, why, I prefer the ranks."
"You have struck upon a truth not generally appreciated, Jones; the relation of the imagination and the memory is almost unity. But for your recollecting your life in the South, and your consequent real and practical sympathy with the people of the South, you could not become, in imagination, a Confederate. Imagination depends largely on memory. The extraordinary vividness of your memory produces a corresponding vividness in imagining. You see how valuable are your peculiar powers. I have no doubt that with a little data concerning some narrow section of the South, such as knowledge of family names and family history, you could join the Confederate army and play a most important role, giving to your generals information of contemplated movements as well as of movements, in actual progress."
"Doctor Khayme," said I, "never could I consent to such a life."
"I do not advise it," said he, without appearing to regard my emotion; "I doubt if it would be best for you. It would be more likely to confirm your intermittent states. What you need is to get rid entirely of any necessity for the exercise of either memory or imagination for a time. To cherish either is to cherish both. On the contrary, any great and long-continued interest, which would dissociate you from your past, would, in my judgment, prove the end of your peculiar states."
I did not reply. The Doctor remained silent for a long time. When he spoke again, he rose to retire. "Goodnight, my boy; and hope for the best. Whatever comes is right, as it fits into the total. Keep up your spirits. War has many startling opportunities as well as disasters."
In the afternoon of the 31st, sounds of a heavy battle were heard miles away to the southeast, and soon the rumour ran that the whole of McClellan's left wing was engaged. Fearing that my company was actually in battle, I begged Dr. Khayme to send a man to report for me to our adjutant; General Morell kindly added, at the Doctor's solicitation, a few words to General Grover.
This battle of Fair Oaks, or Seven Pines as the rebels call it, raged during all the afternoon of the 31st of May and part of June 1st, and did at one time threaten to call for the whole strength of McClellan's left; Grover's brigade, however, was still held in reserve, and did not become engaged. While the battle was in progress, intense but subdued excitement was shown by the men in General Morell's command, and by the other troops on the right. On the part of all, there was constant expectation of orders to march to the help of the Union forces on the further side of the Chickahominy, and when news of the final struggle came, in which our men had more than held their own, disappointment at not being chosen was as great, perhaps, as joy over success. All seemed to feel that they had been robbed of an opportunity.
On the evening of June 2d, the Doctor and I were sitting in his tent, he busily engaged in writing I know not what, when an order came from General Morell for me to report to him at once.
Being ushered into the general's tent, I found there two officers unknown to me. The one who most attracted my attention--though I was careful not to show any curiosity--was a man of nearly forty years, of medium height and muscular frame. His hair was dark; his mustache very slightly tinged with gray. His manner indicated an extremely nervous sense of responsibility, and the attitude of deference, which the others observed in his regard, was very noticeable. His face reminded me vaguely of some portrait--I knew not whose.
The other officer was a larger man, of about the same age, and of a more cheerful temper, if one could judge in a single opportunity. He seemed to be on a very familiar footing with the officer whom I have first mentioned.
General Morell did not present me to either of the two officers. In the middle of the tent was a camp-table, upon which a map was spread, and around which the three officers were sitting. General Morell allowed me to stand, cap in hand, while I listened to some words of a conversation which I supposed had been practically finished before I entered.
"I believe that you clearly understand what is needed," said the smaller officer.
"Perfectly," said General Morell.
The larger man contented himself with merely nodding.
"Then," said the first speaker, "it only remains to know certainly whether we have the means in hand."
The larger man now spoke: "The work can be done; if not in one way, then in another. A reconnaissance would effect with certainty our present purpose. Why risk possible failure with a single man?"
"We cannot be too prudent," replied the other; "we must not divulge our intentions. Lee would know at once the meaning of a reconnaissance."
"We might make more than one, and let him guess which is serious."
"No; the way to go about it is not by force. If General Morell has confidence in his means, let General Morell proceed in his own way."
"I have confidence," said General Morell; "but, of course, any plan might fail. The only thing in life that is certain is death. I should say that we have nine chances out of ten."
"Then do it your own way," said the small officer, rising; the others rose also. "I must tell you good night, gentlemen."
The three now left the tent, while I remained.
I had not been unobservant. No names had been spoken, nor any title given to the officers, and I suspected that very high titles had been suppressed. Exactly who these officers were, I could not know, but that they were in great authority was not to be doubted; I made a wild guess that one was General Porter and the smaller man some trusted staff-officer from army headquarters[4].
[4] Doubtless this officer was General McClellan himself. Mr. Berwick describes very well McClellan's person, which--from the poor cuts in the newspapers--had made an impression, yet a vague impression. It is not a matter for wonder that Mr. Berwick had never before been in the presence of the great general. [ED.]
General Morell returned alone. He motioned me to a seat at the table, then sat opposite me. For a time he seemed preoccupied. At length he looked me full in the face, and said gravely, "Berwick, it is absolutely necessary for us here on this flank to get accurate information of the enemy's strength, and as soon as possible."
"The whole line of the enemy?" I asked.
"No; the strength of his left--the position and forces of his left wing."
"A difficult undertaking, General," said I.
"Yes, but not too difficult, I think; and whether difficult or not, it must be done. Here is our map. It shows us nothing but the country, with the positions of a few batteries and pickets that can be plainly seen from our lines. We do not know how well fortified, or how many, are the troops opposed to us. We have information, but we fear that it is not reliable; in fact, it is contradictory in some of the most essential points. We do not know the length of the enemy's line; we suppose it rests on the James River above Richmond as well as below Richmond. That makes too long a line to be very strong in all its parts. Their left may be a mere skirmish-line; their extreme right may be only cavalry. Some parts of their line must be very thin, and it is suspected that their left is the thinnest part."
To this I said nothing, and the general continued: "The force under Anderson from Fredericksburg has reënforced the army now under Lee, and we are not sure what position it holds. The force under Jackson causes great apprehension. From several quarters we get rumours of an intention or supposed intention of Lee to march Jackson against our right. If there is such a purpose, we ought, by all means, to anticipate the movement. If we are ever to attack, it ought not to be after Jackson reënforces Lee."
While the general had been speaking, my mind was more fixed upon myself than upon what he was saying. The ideas he expressed were readily understood: their implications in regard to myself were equally clear; he wanted me to serve again as a getter of information. My stomach rose against my trade; I had become nauseated--I don't know a better word --with this spying business. The strain upon me had been too great; the 23d and 24th of May had brought to my mental nature transitions too sudden and entire to be wholesome; I felt that only a positive command to enter the rebel lines would justify me in doing myself such violence again; I had begun to fear for myself; I certainly should not volunteer.
"Now, Berwick," said the general; "I believe that you are the man for our business. Do you feel free to undertake it for us?"
"Please tell me what you have in mind, General," I said, more with the view of softening a predetermined refusal than with any intention of heeding his wishes.
"We want accurate information of the enemy's strength on his left," said he; "look at this map--here is our position, nearly on our extreme right; we want you to find out what is opposite our right and what force extends beyond our front. The enemy's line curves or else has a salient somewhere beyond this point; his line turns somewhere and extends in some form to the James River. Find that salient or curve; ascertain its strength and the strength of their left, or western face."
"And I need not go into their lines to do that?" I asked, somewhat hopefully, but only a moment hopefully, for I saw how impossible would be my suggestion.
"I am afraid you will find it necessary to go into the enemy's lines," said the general.
It was now on my lips to ask General Morell whether I had choice in the matter, that is, whether I might decline the honour offered me; but I was checked by the thought that it would be impossible to explain my reluctance; and without an explanation of my peculiarity I should suffer the loss of his respect--something I did not wish to forfeit.
"No," he repeated, "you must get within their lines at night; remain a day with them, two if necessary, and come out at night. The distance is not great. A few miles to go and come, and a few miles within their lines."
Oh, yes! to him it was easy for me to do this. And I have no doubt that he honestly believed the reputed charm of such adventures fascinated me as well as others. But if that man on that accursed night of June had seen what was going on in me, he would have been far from choosing Jones Berwick as the man to send upon an enterprise that demanded a fixed purpose and an undisturbed mind; rather would he have ordered Dr. Khayme to see to it that I had perfect repose and gentle care lest worst should follow worse.
But how could I tell him? If I should desire to tell him, how could I presume upon his good-nature?--the good-nature of a general of a division, whose office was high and whose time was invaluable, and who, as I knew well, tolerated my presence for a few moments only, in order that he might accomplish a purpose.
I must decline or accept without explaining.
"You seem to hesitate, Berwick," said the general; "what is wrong?"
Brought thus face to face with decision, I could hesitate no longer; "I should like to confer with Dr. Khayme, General," I said.
He looked surprised. "What has Dr. Khayme to do with this?" he asked; then, in a milder tone, he said, "I have no objection, however; Dr. Khayme will help rather than hinder."
"The Doctor is my best friend," I said; "and he is much wiser than I am; if I should undertake the duty you outline, he would, as you say, General, help rather than hinder; he can be a very great help."
"We have little time to spare, Berwick. How long do you want with Dr. Khayme?"
"Did you expect me to begin work to-night, General?"
"Yes; you ought to be within their lines by daylight."
"And what is the time now?"
"Ten o'clock."
"Can you wait my answer an hour?"
"What do you mean by your answer?" he said.
The question and the tone were not to my taste. If I was being treated as a party to a possible agreement, well and good; if not--if the general was merely commanding me to obey him, well and good--I would obey without further delay or hesitation.
I rose and saluted. "General," I said, "if you order me to go into the enemy's lines, I shall go. If you are asking me to go into the enemy's lines, I inquire, in my turn, whether you can wait my answer an hour."
"Sit down, Berwick," said the general.
I obeyed. It was not strange that he should wish no unpleasantness. Though scouts are under orders just as other men are, it is not hard to understand that generals feel it necessary to be somewhat delicate in their treatment of such peculiar servants. I suppose that, in the mind of a general, there always exists some fear that his spies will not prove as diligent and self-sacrificing as they could be. I had not, in my treatment of General Morell, intentionally played upon this fear: such a course would have been contemptible; yet I could see at once the effect of my speech, and I endeavoured to set myself right in his mind.
"Perhaps, General," said I; "perhaps I have presumed too much upon the apparent nature of our former relations; if so, I beg to apologize. Give me a plain, direct order and I will try to obey it, and without mental reservation."
"But, Berwick, my good fellow, you know as well as I do that any order to a scout can only be of the most general nature; and you know, too, that an unwilling scout is no scout at all."
"Then, to be plain with you, General, I should greatly prefer that you send some other man on this expedition."
"Berwick," said he, "you are the best man available for this present work."
"Then order me to go, General."
"No," said he; "I'll humour you. Go to Dr. Khayme and return in one hour if possible--and no hard feelings," he added, giving me his hand.
As I went toward the Doctor's tent, my intense distaste for the work offered me seemed to lessen. Perhaps the night air had some effect on me; perhaps the general's parting words had soothed me; perhaps the mystery attaching to the council of war, so to speak, had exaggerated my fears at first, and now calmness had set in; at any rate, before I had reached the Doctor I was beginning to sympathize with General Morell, whose responsibility was so great, and whose evident desire to conciliate had touched me, and was wishing that I could have served him. Then, too, the question came to me what would General Morell do in case my refusal was final? And I had little doubt that the correct reply was: He will command me. And, in that ease, our relationship would be weakened unnecessarily; better go willingly than seem to go sullenly. Yet, with all this, I had resolved that if any escape from this frightful duty should be presented, if any possible substitute could occur to the general's mind, or if, by any means, the bitter extreme of mental suffering, and even--I admitted it to myself--of mental danger, could be avoided, I should not consent to serve.
To speak of this subject to Dr. Khayme would give me no embarrassment; I was sure of his full sympathy; but I was hampered by a doubt as to how much I should tell him of the necessity which prompted the demand for my work. The three generals had spoken of important matters before me, or at least hinted at them, and General Morell had been still more communicative. I made up my mind to say nothing of these matters to the Doctor.
When I reached the tent I found my old master yet busy at his writing. As I entered he looked up at me, and immediately rose from his seat.
"You have been tried," said he; "lie down and rest."
He sat by me and felt my pulse. Then he said, "You will do; it is only a momentary unsteadiness."
Yet, if ever I saw alarm in any one's eyes, that feeling was then in Dr. Khayme's.
I had said nothing; I now started to speak, but the Doctor placed a finger on my lips, saying, "Not yet; I'll do the talking for both of us."
He rose and brought me water, and I drank.
Then he sat by me again, and said, "The fight which one must make with his will against impulse is not easy, especially with some natures; and a single defeat makes the fight harder. To yield once is to become weaker, and to make it easy to yield,"
I understood. He could read me. He knew my weakness. How he knew I could not know; nor did I care. He was a profound soul; he knew the mind if ever yet mere man knew mind; he could read what was going on in the mind by the language of the features and the body. Especially did he know me. But possibly his knowledge was only general; he might infer, from apparent symptoms, that some mental trouble was now pressing hard upon me, and, without knowing the special nature of the trouble, might be prescribing the exercise of the will as a general remedy. Yet it mattered nothing to me, at the moment, I thought, how he knew.
"You will not yield," said he.
I closed my eyes, and thought of Lydia, and of my father, and of Willis, and of Jones, and of nothing connectedly.
"Do you remember," he asked, "the first time you came with me to the little cottage in Charleston?"
I nodded.
"At that time you were passing a crisis. I would not tell you to will. Do you remember it?"
Again I nodded assent.
"To will at another's dictation is impossible. The will is free. If I should tell you to will any certain thing, it would do no good. All that I can do is to say that the will is free."
His finger was yet on my lips. My mind had taken in all that he said, although my thought was giddy. He was clearly right. If I should surrender once, it would be hard to recover my former ground. Yet I doubted my power to will. The doubt brought terror. I wished that he would speak again.
"The power of habit is not lost in a moment. It may be unobserved, or dormant even, but it is not destroyed. No man accustomed to keep himself in subjection can fail to distinguish temptation from surrender."
How well he could read me!
"The desire to will may momentarily fail through bodily weakness, or through fear--- which is the same thing. But he who can will when he desires to will not, conquers himself doubly."
I put his hand away and rose.
"What time is it, Doctor?" I asked.
"Half-past ten," said he, without looking at his watch.
"I must report to General Morell at eleven," I said.
"We must not waste time, then," he said; "who accompanies you?"
"I go alone."
He looked at me searchingly, then grasped my hand. He understood.
"You have strengthened your will; good. Now I will strengthen your body."
He went to a small chest, from which he took a flask. He poured a spoonful of liquid into a glass. I drank.
"It will be slow and last long," said he.
He brought me the gray clothing and helped me to dress; he turned the pockets of my blue clothes and selected such things as I needed.
"Do you go armed?" he asked.
"Yes; apparently. I shall take the Enfield--unloaded."
He brought the cartridge-box and the canteen; he brought the haversack, and put food in it.
Said he, "I wish you would humour one of my whims."
"Anything you wish, Doctor."
"Put the palmetto buttons on your coat."
It was soon done. I was passive; he was doing the work.
"Now," he said, "one other thing. Take this pencil, and this book. Turn to May 23d. I will dictate."
It was a small blank-book, a little soiled, with the pages divided into sections, which were headed with dates for the year 1862.
"Turn to May 23d," he had said.
"I have it," said I.
"Read the date," said he.
"FRIDAY, May 23, 1862."
"Now write."
The Doctor dictated; I wrote:--
"Arrived after furlough. Drilled A.M. and P.M. Weather clear."
"SATURDAY, May 24, 1862. "On camp guard. Letters from home. Showers. Marched at night."
"SUNDAY, May 25, 1862. "Marched all day. Bivouacked in woods at night."
"MONDAY, May 26, 1862. "Marched but a few miles. Day very hot. Weather bad. Heavy rain at night."
"TUESDAY, May 27, 1862. "Rain. Heard a battle ahead. Marched past--"
"What brigade was that you saw at Hanover Court-House?" the Doctor asked.
"Branch's."
"Yes, Branch's; write, 'Marched past Branch's brigade, that had been fighting.'"
Then the Doctor said: "Now turn to the fly-leaf of the book and write"--he paused a moment--"simply write Jones. Here--turn the book lengthwise, and write Jones."
I wrote Jones--lengthwise the book.
"Wait," said he; "put a capital B."
I put a capital B after Jones.
"Let me see," said he.
I showed him the book.
"No," said he; "erase that B and put another one before Jones."
"Have you an eraser?"
"I'll get one."
The B after Jones was erased, leaving a dark splotch. I wrote B. before Jones.
"We must get that dark spot out," said he.
He took the book and very carefully tore out part of the leaf, so that there remained only B. Jones and the part of the fly-leaf above the writing.
"Now," said he, "put that in your pocket."
"What is all this for, Doctor?"
"For a purpose. Keep it in your pocket; it may serve to protect you."
"What time is it, Doctor?"
"Ten minutes to eleven."
"I must go."
He said no word; but he put up his hands to my face, and made me bend to him, and kissed me.
Before midnight one of General Morell's orderlies had passed me through our cavalry pickets beyond Mechanicsville.
The Doctor's stimulant, or something else, gave me strength, My mind was clear and my will firm. True, I felt indifferent to life; but the lesson which the Doctor had given me I had clearly understood, and I had voluntarily turned the die for duty after it had been cast for ease. All my hesitation had gone, leaving in its place disgust kept down by effort, but kept down. I wanted nothing in life. Nothing? Yes, nothing; I had desire, but knew it unattainable, and renounced its object. I would not hope for a happiness that might bring ruin on another.
To die in the work begun this night seemed to me appropriate; life at the present rate was worse than worthless. Yet I had not yielded to this feeling even; I would be prudent and would accomplish what was hoped for, if my strength should serve.
In General Morell's tent I had been offered a lieutenant's commission,--a blank fully signed and ready to fill, but had rejected it, through vanity perhaps--the vanity that told me to first perform a duty for which the honour had been soothingly offered.
My plans--I had no plans. I had started.
What was the weather when I started that night? I do not know. I was making for the swamp; I would go to the swamp; I would look for an opportunity--that was all.
The swamp was soon around me. I filed right. I found mire and bush, and many obstacles. The obstacles stirred my reason. To follow every crook of this winding stream was absurd. I came out of the swamp and began to skirt its edge. I looked toward my right--the northeast; the sky reflected a dim glow from many dying camp-fires. I could see how the low swamp's edge bent in and out, and how I could make a straighter course than the river. In some places a path was found. Our pickets were supposed to be on the edge of the hills behind me.
My course was northwestward. I crossed two roads which ran at right angles to my course and probably entered Richmond. On each of them successively I advanced until I could see a bridge, upon which I knew it would not be safe to venture, for it was no doubt held by the Confederates. I continued up the stream, approaching it at times to see if it had narrowed.
About two miles, I supposed, from our cavalry vedettes, I crossed a railroad. On the other side I turned southward. The ground was covered with dense undergrowth and immense trees, and was soft and slippery from recent high water. My progress was soon interrupted by a stream, flowing sluggishly to my left. I sought a crossing. The stream was not deep, but the slippery banks gave me great difficulty in the darkness. The water came to my waist; on the further side were hollows filled with standing water left by the freshet. I had crossed the main branch of the Chickahominy.
Within a mile I expected to find Brook Run, behind which it was supposed the Confederate left extended, and where I must exercise the greatest care lest I run foul of some vedette. How to avoid stumbling on one of them in the darkness, was a problem. Very likely they were placed from a hundred to two hundred yards apart, and near the bank of the stream, if practicable, especially at night, for the stream itself would not only be their protection, but also, by its difficulty and its splashing, would betray any force which should attempt to cross to the south side.
But I found the creek very crooked, and I considered that a line of vedettes, two hundred yards apart by the course of the stream, would require probably a man to every fifty yards in a direct line, and such a line of vedettes could not well be maintained constantly--never is maintained, I think, unless an enemy's approach is momentarily feared, in which case you frequently have no vedettes at all. Following up this thought I concluded that the vedettes were, most likely, watching their front from the inner bends of the stream, and that, at a bend which had its convex side toward the north, was my opportunity.
I was not long in finding such a bend. And now my caution became very great, and my advance very slow. The bank sloped, but was almost completely hidden in the darkness. I could not see the edge of the water.
Lying flat, I thrust the butt of my gun ahead of me, and moved it up and down and right and left, trying the inequalities of the ground. To make no sound required the very greatest care; a slip of an inch might have caused a loud splash.
Slowly I gained ground until I reached the water, and stood in it to my knees. I listened--not a sound. I slowly moved forward, raising my foot not an inch from the muddy bottom, straining eye and ear to note the slightest sign of danger. The water deepened to my middle.
I crawled up the further bank. Again I lent ear. Nothing. I crawled forward for fifty yards or more, hoping, rather than believing, that I was keeping halfway between the sides of the bend.
I rested a while, for such work is very hard. Before a minute had passed I heard a noise--and another: one at my right, the other at my left. The sounds were repeated. I knew what they meant--the vedette on either side of me was being relieved. My course had been right--I was midway between two sentinels.
How to get through the picket-line ahead of me? I reasoned that the pickets were not in the swamp, but on the edge of the hills. Lying there between the two vedettes I imagined a plan. I knew that a picket-line is relieved early in the day when troops are in position, as the armies were now. If I could see the relief coming, I would show myself just at the time it arrived, hoping that each party would take me to belong to the other.
But suppose I should not see the relieving company, or suppose any one of a thousand things should at the last moment make my plan impracticable, what then?
I saw that I must have some other plan to fall back on; I would make some other plan as I crawled forward.
At what moment should I strike the line of Confederate pickets? That the country outside was in their cavalry lines I well knew, and I hoped that for this reason their infantry would be less watchful; but this thought did not make me any the less prudent and slow in my advance. I had easily succeeded in passing the vedettes; to avoid the vedette reliefs might not be easy.
When I reached the edge of the swamp, daylight was just beginning to show. Could I hope to remain long between vedettes and pickets? Impossible. But impossible is a strong word, I thought. Why not climb? Trees were all around me; I might easily hide in the thick boughs of a cedar near by. But that would do me no good; at least, it could do no good unless in case of sudden necessity. I must get through the picket-line; outside I could do nothing. Once in rear of the Confederate pickets, I should have little or no trouble in remaining for days in the camps and in the main lines; getting through was the difficulty. Daylight was increasing.
Had it taken me two hours to crawl from the line of vedettes to this edge of the swamp? The question rose in my mind from seeing a relief come down the hill at my right; two men, supposably a non-commissioned officer and a private, were going to pass in fifty yards of me. I let them pass. They went into the swamp. Five minutes later two men returned by the same route, or almost so, but came a little nearer to me; I saw them coming and felt for my glass, but did not find it. I supposed that Dr. Khayme had forgotten to put it in my haversack. Yet the men--no doubt the same non-commissioned officer, with the private he had just relieved from duty as a vedette--passed so near me that I could distinctly see their dress, and could note its worn and bedraggled appearance. These men had seen hard service, evidently.
Five minutes more passed. The east was aglow with day. Two men at my left were now coming down the hill. They passed into the swamp. These men wore uniforms fresh and clean.
The thought came upon me at once that I had passed between two vedettes belonging to different regiments. I cast about for some way to take advantage of this circumstance, but racked my brains to no purpose. Finally, however, an odd idea was born. Could I not go back to the vedettes, and talk to either the right or the left man of the connecting line? He would probably think that I belonged to the command joining his. No doubt I could do this; but what should I gain? I should merely be losing time.
Then another idea came. Could I not post myself as a Confederate vedette between the connecting men? But for what? Even if I could do so there was no profit in this romantic idea. I gave it up.
Yet I must do something. I considered the chances of going forward boldly, walking straight between two pits, and on up the hill. The pickets would see that I was a Confederate. If I could strike between the connecting pits of the two commands, the thing might be done. Yet I wanted a better way.
Before the second relief had returned I was hidden in the boughs of a tree. The corporal and a man passed back as they had come. They were talking, but I could not hear what they said.
I watched them from the tree. A gully was in front of me, a large gully, only in parts visible from my position; it seemed to be on their route. The two men became hidden by this gully. I saw them no more. My interest was excited. Why had the men gone into this gully? There was smoother ground outside. They had a purpose; I must find it out.
Until the next relief should come I was comparatively safe. I was on neutral ground, or unobserved ground, for an hour at least. I could not know whether the reliefs came as ordinarily--once every two hours. There would probably be nobody passing between vedettes and pickets--unless, indeed, some officer should go the rounds of the sentinels; that was something I must risk.
I came down from the tree and cautiously approached the mouth of the gully. I climbed another tree, from which I had a better view. I could now see that the gully extended far up the hill, and I suspected that the picket-line stretched across it; but there was no indication of the purpose which had caused the men to go into the gully. My position was a good one, and I waited. I could see a part of the picket-line--that is, not the men, but the rifle-pits.
Ten minutes went by. Coming down the hill from the right in an oblique direction toward the gully, I saw an unarmed rebel. He disappeared. He had gone down into this gully, which, I was now confident, separated by its width the pickets of different commands. What could this unarmed man be doing in the gully? Nothing for me to do but to wait; I was hoping that an opportunity had been found.
Soon I saw another man coming down toward the gully; he was coming from the other side--the left; he was armed. At nearly the same instant the unarmed man reappeared; his back was toward me, he held his canteen in his hand. The situation was clear; there was water in the gully; my opportunity had come.
I came down from the tree. Almost an hour would be mine before the vedettes were relieved. Cautiously I made my way to the mouth of the gully. I lay flat and watched. A man was climbing the side of the gully; he was going to the left; he was armed--doubtless the man I had seen a moment before. I went into the gully. I must get to that spring or pool, or whatever it was, before another man should come.
Before the man had reached the picket-line, I was at the spring--and it was a good one, at least for that swamp. A little hollow had been made by digging with bayonets, perhaps, or with the hands, on one side of the gully, just where a huge bulk of unfallen earth would protect the hole from the midday sun, the only sun which could reach the bottom of this ravine, defended by its wall on either hand. The hole was so small that only one canteen could be filled at a time; but the water was good compared with that of the Chickahominy. Doubtless it was the difficulty of getting pure water that justified the relaxation of discipline which permitted the men to have recourse to this spring in rear of their vedette lines.
Canteen in hand, I sat down by the spring. Fully three minutes I sat and waited. Seeing how muddy I was, I took out my knife and began scraping the mud from my shoes and clothing.
I heard a step. I put my canteen into the water and held it down with one hand, continuing, to scrape mud with the other.
"Fill mine, too," said a voice.
I did not look up.
"Ain't this a swamp to read about? Did you ever see the likes o' mosquitoes?"
"I couldn't see 'em," said I; "supposing you mean whilst I was on vydette."
He laughed. "Bet you had to fight 'em, though. Say--you won't git that mud off that-away; let it dry."
I did not reply. He was standing almost over me, upon a sort of shelf in the side of the gully, as there was not room at the water for more than one man.
"Gimme your canteen," said I.
He handed it to me. It was a bright new tin canteen of the cheap Confederate make--uncovered. I knew at once that this man belonged to the fresh regiment. The old Confederates had supplied themselves, from battlefields and prisoners, and the greater capture of stores, with good Union canteens. Even while I was thinking this, he said, "What'll you take to boot 'twixt your canteen and mine?"
"Don't want to swap," said I.
I filled his canteen.
"Now, gimme your hand," said I.
He held out his hand, which I grasped, and he pulled hard; it took two pulls to bring me to his side. I did not look at him, but knew that he was a small man.
He turned away. I followed him. I could see that his uniform was new. We reached the edge of the gully, and stood still.
Now I could see the pits. The gully was deeper up the hill. There was a pit on either edge of the gully, which was about forty feet wide. Had I known of the existence of that gully, I could have stolen through the picket-line in the night--but perhaps they had it guarded at night.
"Say," said my companion, "why didn't you go back on your own side?"
"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies," said I.
He was two steps ahead of me--a man of small stature. His shoes and his clothing up to his knees were almost as muddy as mine. He walked slowly up the hill. In a very few minutes we should be within the picket-line; it took all my will to preserve composure; I was glad the man was in front of me. We stepped slowly tip the hill.
I could see nobody at the pits. The pickets were lying down, probably, half of them asleep, the other half awake but at ease, I was wishing my leader would speak again. The nervous tension was hard. What should I do when we reached the line? I had no plan, except to walk on. I wished my leader would continue to march, and go past the pits--then I could follow him; the trivial suggestion aroused self-contempt; I was thinking of straws to catch at. I must strengthen my will.
He had made four steps; he said, "Sun's up."
This was not much of an opening. I managed to respond, "Don't see it, myself."
"Look at that big pine up yonder," said he.
"Be another hot day," said I; "wish I was up there."
"What for?"
"So I could get some sleep."
"You won't git any down here in this old field; that's shore."
"That's what's a-troublin' me," said I; "and I've got to take care of myself."
"Ben sick?"
"No, not down sick; but the hot sun don't do me any good."
"Bilious, I reckon," said he.
"No," said I, "not bilious; it's my head."
"Bet I'd go to the surgeon, then, ef it was me," he said.
"Wish I could see the Doctor," I replied, spelling the word, mentally, with a capital.
"Well, why don't you tell your captain to let you go back?"
"You don't know my captain," said I.
"Hard on you, is he?"
"Well, hard ain't the word; but I wouldn't risk asking him out here."
"Bet I'd go, anyhow, ef it was me," said he.
"If he should see me going, know what he'd do?"
"What?"
"Send a man after me."
"Well, you jest come along with, me. Bet our men won't stop you; you don't belong to them."
This was just what I wanted; but I was afraid to show any eagerness. We were almost at the picket-line, and I had no doubt that my friend was marching straight toward his own rifle-pit; he was surely on the left of his company--he was such a small man.
"Stop," said I.
He halted, and turned to me. He was a good-looking young fellow. He had the palmetto button on his coat. Our eyes met.
"You won't give me away?" I said.
"What do you take me for?" he asked.
"Oh, you're all right; but if you should happen to say anything to anybody, it might get out. If you won't tell any of your men, I'll go."
"Oh, come along; you needn't be afeared of my tellin' on you. I don't know your name, and--not to cause hard feelin's--I don't want to know it; come on."
He stopped at the pit on the edge of the gully. I passed on. I saw men lying, sitting, and a very few standing down the line at some of the other pits. I heard no talk. The men at the pit where my friend had halted did not speak to me. There was nothing to cause them to speak. He handed his canteen to one of the men; even this man did not speak; he drank.
I walked up the hill, going straight toward the big pine. The sun itself could now be seen. What I have narrated had not taken five minutes, for the pits were not more than a hundred yards from the edge of the swamp.
Now, once out of sight of the picket-line, I should feel safe. How far in the rear the Confederate fortifications were, I could not yet tell--but that mattered little; I should have no fears when I reached them.
As long as I thought it possible that I could be seen from the pits I went toward the big pine; soon I knew that I was hidden by bushes, and I went as rapidly as I could walk in a southeast direction for nearly an hour. I passed in full sight of the picket-line in many places, and fortifications far to my right could be seen upon the hills. My purpose was to enter the main Confederate entrenchments as nearly as possible opposite New Bridge--opposite the position from which, I had started on the night before.
The sun was an hour high. I had come three miles, I thought; I sat in a shady place and endeavoured to think what course was best. I believed I had come far enough. I had nothing to do but go forward. I could see parts of fortifications. No one would think of hindering my entrance. I would go into the lines; then I would turn to the right and follow out my instructions.
Again I started, and reached the brow of the hill; it was entirely bare of trees. Three or four hundred yards in front were lines of earthworks. I did not pause; I went straight ahead.
A body of men marched out of the breastworks--about a company, I thought. They were marching forward; their line of march would bring them near me. I held my course. I judged that the company was some regiment's picket for the next twenty-four hours; they were going to relieve the last night's pickets.
The last man of the company had hardly appeared: suddenly I heard a cannon roar, apparently from a Federal battery almost directly in my rear, and at the instant a shell had shrieked far above my head.
At once the Confederates replied. I did not think that I was in any danger, as the shells went high in the air in order to attain their object on the other side of the Chickahominy.
The company of infantry had countermarched, and was again behind the line of earthworks.
I looked around for shelter from the Federal cannon; although the shells went high, it would be folly for me to go forward into the place of danger. The hill was bare. There was no depression, no tree, no fence, nothing but the open wind-swept hill--desolate and bare. I was on this bare hill.
A man passed me from the rear. He was armed. He, too, like myself, had no doubt come from the picket-line.
"Better leg it!" he cried--and I legged it with him, making for the breastworks.
The shells from the rear seemed to fly over at a less height.
One of the shells burst over my head.
Suddenly I saw my companion throw up one hand--his left hand--with great violence, and fall flat; hardly was I conscious that I saw him fall; at the instant there was a deafening noise, and I was conscious of nothing.
"Who is it?"
"Don't know."
My head pained me. I opened my eyes. The blue sky was over me now. A gently swaying motion lifted and lowered me.
"Hurt bad?"
"Head mashed."
"Anybody else?"
"One more, and he's gone!"
I could not see the speakers ... I tried to turn my head, but could not.
I turned my eyes to the right, then to my left; the motion of my eyes threatened to break something in my head.
I saw nothing but the trees, which seemed to move back slowly, and to become larger and smaller.
Great thirst consumed me. I tried to speak, but could not.
The swaying motion continued. The trees rose and fell and went by. The blue sky was over me. I did not stir.
How long this lasted I did not know. I was hardly conscious that I was conscious.
I heard a word now and then: "Look out there!" "Hold on!" "Wait a second!"
A moment before, I had walked out of the hotel among the pines ... these are not pines; they are oaks. A moment before, the night sky had been overcast with rain-clouds ... now the sky is blue over my head, and the sun is hot. My head whirs with pain and fear--fear of insanity. I have been hurt; I have been unconscious ... I cannot recollect what hurt me....
But no; there was no mental danger, for my senses were returning. I could feel that I was being borne, in a way unknown to me, by some unknown men. I could not see the men, but I could hear them step,--sometimes very clumsily, causing me renewed pain,--and I could hear them speak, and breathe heavily.
Now I thought I could see tents, and great fear came on me.
We passed between objects like tents, and went on; we were in a field, or some open space; I could see no trees. Then I heard, or thought I heard, a voice cry out strange syllables, "Hep! Hep! Hep!"--and again, "Hep! Hep! Hep!"
Well, well ... this is a dream; I'll soon wake up; but it is vivid while it lasts.
Yet the strange dream continued. How long had I been dreaming? I dreamed that the men came to a stop. They lowered me to the ground.
I looked at them. They were looking at me. Their faces were strange. They were dirty. They were clothed alike. I closed my eyes. I tried to think.
"There he goes again," said a voice.
I felt a hand on my wrist. I opened my eyes. I saw a face bending over me. The face rose. It was a good face. This man's head was bare. He had spectacles. He was not dirty.
"Bring him in," said the man with the good face.
I was lifted again. I was taken into a tent ... certainly a tent. There were low beds in the tent--pallets on the ground. There were forms on the beds.
The men laid me on a bed. They straightened my limbs. Then one of them raised me from behind, and another took off my coat, or I supposed so, though I did not clearly see. Then they went away.
I was thirsty. I tried to speak, but could not speak. The man with the spectacles came to me. He said: "I am going to dress your head. You are not hurt badly."
My head was paining me, then, because I had been hurt? Yes, that must be true. If this was a dream, this part of it was not unreasonable. The man went away.
But did I ever have such a nightmare before? I had supposed that people awoke before they were hurt.
The man came again. He brought a bowl of water and a spoon. He raised my head, and put a spoonful of water to my lips. I tried to open my mouth, but could not.
He called, "William!" A negro man came. The negro took my head in his hands. The man with the spectacles opened my mouth, and put water into it. I swallowed. Then he put the bowl to my lips and I drank. Both went away.
The man with the spectacles came again. I could see scissors in his hand. He turned me so that I lay on my side. He began to hurt me; I groaned.
"I won't be long about it," he said; "I am only cutting your hair a little, so that I can get at you."
Then I felt my head getting cold--wet, I thought; then I felt my head get warm; soon I was turned again, and lay on my back.
"Now," said the man, "I'll give you some more water if you'll promise to go to sleep."
I could not promise, though I wanted the water, and wanted to go to sleep so that this strange dream might be ended. Then I laughed inwardly at the thought of banishing dreams by sleeping.
The man brought a glass, and held it to my lips, and I drank. The water did not taste so good as the first draught did.
I closed my eyes; again the thought came that the dream would soon be over.
When I opened my eyes, I knew it was night. A lighted candle was near me. I was lying on my side. I had turned, or had been turned, while asleep. Near me was a man on a bed; beyond him was another man on another bed ... a great fear seized me; drops of cold sweat rolled down my face.... Where was I? What was I?
My head began to throb. I heard heavy breathing. I tried to remember how I had been brought to this place. It seemed like the place of ... had I dreamed? Yes, I had dreamed that I had drunk much water; my throat was parched.
A face bent over me. It was a man's face. I had seen it in my dream ... then I was not yet awake? I was still dreaming? Or, if I was awake, maybe I had not dreamed? Can this man and these men and this tent and this pain all be real? No; certainly not. When I awake I shall laugh at this dream; I shall write it out, because it is so complex and strange.
The man, said, "You feel better now, don't you?"
I tried to reply. I could not speak, though my lips moved. The man brought water, and I drank. He sat by me, and put his fingers on my wrist.
"You'll be all right in a day or two," he said. I hoped that his words would come true; then I wondered how, in, a dream, I could hope for a dream to end. He went away.
I tried hard to think, but the effort increased the pain in my head. I felt cramped, as though I had lain long in one posture. I tried to turn, but was able only to stretch my legs and arms.
The man came again. He looked at me; then, he knelt down and raised my head. I felt better. He pulled something behind me, and then went away, leaving me propped up.
Daylight was coming. The light of the candle contrasted but feebly against the new light. I could see the pallets. On each was a man. There were five. I counted,--one, two, three, four, five; five sick men. I wondered if they were dreaming also, and if they were all sick in the head ... no; no; such fantasy shows but more strongly that all this horrible thing is unreal.
I counted again,--one, two, three, four, five, six; how is that?
Oh, I see; I have counted myself, this time.
Myself? What part or lot have I with these others? Who are they? Who am I? I know nothing--nothing.
The man stood over me. I knew that he was a doctor. He said, "Are you easier?"
I could not reply. He went away.
I closed my eyes, and again tried to think; again the effort brought increased pain. I could hear a whirring noise in my ears. I tried to sleep. I tried to quit thinking.
When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining. One side of the tent was very bright.
A negro man came. I remembered that his name was William. He brought a basin of water and a towel and sponge. He sponged my face and hands, and dried them with the towel. Then he said, "Can you eat some breakfast?" I could not reply.
The men on the pallets--five--were awake. They said nothing. The doctor was kneeling by one of the pallets--the one next to me. The man on the pallet groaned. The doctor said something to him. I could not tell what the doctor said. The man groaned.
Another man, propped up on his pallet, was eating. I began to feel hungry.
William brought a cup of tea, with a piece of biscuit floating in it. He raised my head and put the cup to my lips. I drank. William went away.
The sun was making the tent very warm. Many sounds came from outside. What caused the sounds I did not know. I was near enough to the railroad to hear the cars, but I knew the sounds were not from cars. I could hear shouting, as if of wagoners.
All at once, I heard thunder--no; it could not be thunder; the sun was shining. Yet, it might be thunder; a storm might be coming.
I wished that I was back in the hotel. I was sick, and it would not do for me to get wet; this wagoner's tent was not the place for a sick man in a storm.
But ... was there a hotel? The hotel was a dream--this was the reality. I know nothing.
The doctor came. He looked at me, and smiled. I tried to smile in return, for I liked him. "That's right," he said.
The doctor knelt by the pallet next to mine--that of the man who had groaned. The man was not groaning now.
The doctor rose. I could see the sick mart's face--white. The doctor drew the sheet over the man's white face. The doctor went out of the tent. A cold sweat was on me.
Some men came in--four men. Each man took the pallet by a corner. They took the pallet out of the tent. They did not come back.
Again I heard thunder. The sun was still shining. The heat was great--great enough, I thought, to bring a storm even in October. I had never before known it so warm.
Why should so many wagoners be sick at once? And why should I be with them? I began to fear that I had been sick for a great many days; I thought that I had been unconscious.
The doctor came in. A man was with him. The man had a book in his hand--a book and a pencil.
Now I could see some gilt badges on the doctor's collar. On his arms were some gilt stripes--and gilt stripes on the arms of the other man also. These men must be officers, I thought, perhaps officers of the Citadel battalion[5]. I wondered what I should be doing in their world. Then again came the thought that I had been unconscious, and for how long I did not know.
[5] "The Citadel" is the Military Academy of South Carolina in Charleston. [ED.]
But, no; it can be nothing else than a dream!
The man with the book wrote something in it. Then he showed the book to the doctor, and gave him the pencil. The doctor wrote in the book, and gave the pencil and the book back to the man. The man with the book went out of the tent.
The doctor came to me. He raised his right hand as high as his shoulder. The first finger and the middle finger were stretched out; the other fingers were closed. He was smiling. I looked at his hand and at his face, and wondered.
He said, "Look! How many?"
I said, "Two."
He laughed aloud. "I thought so; we're getting on--we're doing famously."
He sat down by me, on some sort of a stool--one of those folding stools. He began to dress my head.
"Your name is Jones?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, wondering, yet pleased with the sign of good-will shown by his calling me by my first name.
"What edge are you?"
I was silent. I did not understand the question.
"What edge are you?" he repeated.
I was not so sure this time that I had heard aright. Possibly he had used other words, but his speech sounded to me as if he said, "What edge are you?"
I thought he was meaning to ask my age.
I replied, "Twenty-one." My voice was strange to me.
"You mean the twenty-first?" he asked.
"I am in my twenty-second," I said.
"The twenty-second what?" said he.
"Year," said I, greatly astonished.
He smiled, then suddenly became serious, and went away.
After a while he came back. "Do you know what I asked you?" he inquired.
"No," said I.
"Then why did you say twenty-one and twenty-second?"
"That is my age," said I.
"Oh!" said he; "but I did not ask your age. You did not hear?"
"No," said I.
"What is your reg-i-ment?" he asked very distinctly.
Now it was clear enough that all this thing was a dream. For a man in real life to ask such a question, it was impossible. I felt relieved of many fears.
"What are you smiling at?" he asked.
"I've been dreaming," I said.
"And your dream was pleasant?"
"No," said I.
"You smile then at unpleasant things?"
"No," said I.
"I don't understand you," said he.
"Neither do I," said I.
"What is your regiment?" he asked.
"Why do you ask such a question?"
"It is my duty. I have to make a report of your case. Give me an answer," said he.
"I have no regiment," I said.
"Try to remember. Do you know that you have been unconscious?"
"Yes."
"Well, you are better now; and you will soon be well, and I shall have to send you back to your regiment."
"What do you mean by a regiment?" I asked.
At this he looked serious, and went away, but soon returned and gave me a bitter draught.
I went into a doze. My mind wandered over many trifles. I was neither asleep nor awake. My nose and face itched. But the pain in my head was less violent.
After a while I was fully awake. The pain had returned. The doctor was standing by me.
"Where do you live when you are at home?" he asked.
The question came with something like a shock. I did not know how to reply. And it seemed no less strange to know that thus far I had not thought of home, than to find that I did not know a home,
"Where is your home?" he repeated.
"I do not remember," I said.
"Where were you yesterday?"
"I was at the hotel on the hill," I said.
He laughed in a peculiar way. Then he said, "You think you are in South Carolina?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Are you not one of Gregg's men?"
"Mo," said I.
"You don't belong to Gregg's regiment?"
"No," said I.
"Nor to Gregg's brigade?"
"Soldiers, you mean?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Are there soldiers camped here?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"I am not one of them," I said.
"Try to remember," he said, and went away.
The more I tried to remember, the more confused I was, and the more did I suffer pain. I could see now that what I had taken for a wagoners' camp was a soldiers' camp. But why there should be soldiers here was too hard for me. This doctor with gilt stripes must be a surgeon.
The doctor came again.
"How are you now, Jones?" he asked.
"Better, I trust," said I.
"You will be fit for duty in less than a week," he said.
"Fit for duty?"
"Yes."
"What duty?"
"Do you mean to insist that you are not a soldier?"
"I am not a soldier," I said.
"Then why do you wear a uniform?"
"I have never been a soldier; I have never worn uniform; you are taking me for another man."
"You have on the uniform now," said he.
He brought a coat and showed me the brass buttons on it.
"Your buttons are like mine--palmetto buttons."
"Palmetto buttons?" I repeated, wondering.
"Yes; you say you are in South Carolina?"
"Yes," I assented. "Is that my coat?"
"Yes. What district?"
"I don't know--yes, Barnwell."
"Who is your captain?"
"I have never had a captain." Then, by a great effort, I said, "I don't understand at all this talk about soldiers and captains. Do you belong to the Citadel battalion?"
"No," he said; "you mean the Charleston Citadel?
"Yes."
"Did you go to the Citadel?"
"No; I think not," said I.
"Why do you refer to the Citadel battalion?"
"They are soldiers," I replied.
"Did you ever hear of President Davis--Jeff Davis?"
"No," said I.
"You know something of Charleston?"
"I've been there, I think."
"When?"
"Well; not very long ago."
"How long? Try to think."
"I am greatly confused," I said. "I don't know whether I am awake or dreaming."
"Ask me questions," said the doctor.
"Where am I?"
"In the field hospital."
"What am I here for? What is the field hospital? I did not know there was a hospital here."
"Where do you think you are?"
"In Aiken," I said.
"Do you live in Aiken?"
"I don't know, Doctor. I suppose you are a doctor?"
"Yes, when I'm at home; here I am a surgeon. Ask me more questions."
"Give me some water," said I.
He brought the water, and I drank.
"Am I not in Aiken?"
"You are not now in Aiken," said the doctor. "Try to remember whether your home is in Aiken."
"No, I am staying here for a time," said I.
"Where is your home?"
"I do not know anything," said I, gloomily.
"Ask me more questions," said the doctor; "we must try to get you out of this."
"Out of this what?"
"This condition. You have been hurt, and you cannot put things together yet. It will come right after a little, if you don't get irritable."
"I hope so," said I.
"Ask more questions," said he.
"How did I get here?"
"You were brought here unconscious, or almost so, by my infirmary men."
"What men?"
"Infirmary men."
"What are they?"
"Well," said he, "they are my helpers."
"I knew something strange had happened. How did I get hurt?"
"Do you know how long you were in Aiken?"
"I came here yesterday, and expected to stay two or three days; but from what you tell me I suppose I am not here now."
"Where were you before you went to Aiken?"
"I don't know."
"Were you not in Charleston?"
"I was in Charleston, but it might have been after I was in Aiken."
His look became very serious at this--in truth, what I had said was puzzling to myself.
"I think you belong to Gregg's brigade, very likely to Gregg's regiment. I shall be obliged to leave you now, but you need something first."
He gave me another bitter draught of I know not what, and went out of the tent.
To say what I thought would be impossible. I thought everything and nothing.
Again that thunder.
The best I had in this bewilderment was trust in the doctor. I believed he would clear up this fog in my brain; for that my brain was confused I could no longer doubt. The doctor was hopeful--that was my comfort. He had given me medicine every time I felt worse; he was certainly a good doctor. I felt soothed: perhaps the medicine was helping me.
When I awoke, the sun was low. The doctor was by me.
"You have been talking in your sleep," he said.
"What did I say?" My brain now seemed a little clearer.
"Nothing of consequence. You mentioned the names of several persons--you said something about Butler, and something also about Brooks and Sumner."
"Was Brooks from Aiken?"
"What Brooks?"
"I don't remember," I said.
"I was sure that you belong to a South Carolina regiment," he said.
"No, Doctor; I don't belong to any regiment, and I don't understand your talk about regiments. Why should there be regiments?"
"Do you see these men?" asked the doctor, pointing to the pallets; "they have been wounded in battle."
I looked at him closely. He seemed sober and sane, although his words were wild.
"We are at war," he continued. "Tell me," he added suddenly, "tell me what day of the month this is."
"The nineteenth," said I.
"How do you know?"
"Because I read yesterday the Augusta Constitutionalist of the eighteenth," said I.
"Now that's the kind of answer I like," said he; "your head is getting well. Eighteenth of what?"
"October; I think this is very warm weather for October," said I.
"It is indeed," said he.
"I suppose there was a storm somewhere," said I; "I heard thunder."
"I did not hear any thunder," said he.
"Then maybe it was part of my dream," I said.
"What else did you dream?"
"I dreamed that I saw a dead man carried out of the tent."
"Can you trust me?" asked the doctor.
"Yes."
"How old did you say you are?"
"Twenty-one."
"Do you know in what year you were born?"
"Yes; to be sure--thirty-eight."
"Thirty-eight and twenty-one make how much?"
"Fifty-nine," said I.
"I think I'd better give you some medicine," said he.
I took the draught. In a very short time I began to feel strangely calm--in fact, almost stupid. The doctor sat by my side.
"You can trust me?"
"Yes."
"You belong to a South Carolina regiment," he said.
I looked at him, and said nothing.
"I know just what you are thinking," said he, smiling; "you are thinking that one of us two is crazy."
"Yes," said I.
"But you are wrong, at least in regard to yourself. You are suffering a little in the head, but there is no longer any danger to your brain at all."
"I think I am dreaming," said I.
"Well," said he, "continue to think so; that will do no harm."
He went away, but soon returned--I say soon, but I may be wrong in that.
"How do you get on with that dream of yours?" he asked; "what have you dreamed while I wan gone?"
"Confusion," said I; "nothing but confusion."
"If a man is dreaming, will a sharp pain awake him?"
"I suppose so."
"Well, let me try it," and he opened his lancet.
I shrank, and he laughed.
"You are beginning to understand that many things have happened since you were in Aiken?"
I made a motion of my head--moaning half assent.
"You will end by remembering your broken experience," he said, "but it may take some time. Your case is more stubborn than I thought."
"How did I get hurt?" I asked.
"You were knocked down," said he.
"Who did it?" I asked.
"Don't precisely know," said he; "but it makes no difference which one did it; we all know that you were in the right."
"There was a quarrel?" I asked.
"A big one," said he; "I think it best to relieve your curiosity at once by telling you what has happened in the world. If I did not, you would make yourself worse by fancying too much, and you would become more and more bewildered. I can put you right. But can you make up your mind to accept the situation as it is, and bear up in the hope that you will come right in the end?"
I did not reply. I do not know what feeling was uppermost in my mind. It was not anxiety, for my interest in others was pure blank. It was not fear, for he had assured me that my physical condition was more favourable.
"Yes," he continued; "it is best to tell you the truth, and the whole truth, lest your fancy conjure up things that do not exist. After all, there is nothing in it but what you might have reasonably expected when you were in Aiken in eighteen fifty-nine."
"How long have I been in this condition?" I asked.
"This condition? Only since yesterday morning."
"Then why do you say eighteen fifty-nine?"
"Your present condition began yesterday; but it is also true--or at least seems to be true--that you do not remember your experience from October eighteen fifty-nine until yesterday."
"You mean for me to believe that eighteen fifty-nine has all gone?"
"Yes--all gone--in fact, this is summer weather."
I remembered the heat of the past day, and the thunder. Yet it was hard for me to believe that I had been unconscious for six months--but, no; he was not saying I had been unconscious for six months--nobody could live through such a state--he was telling me that I could not remember what I had known six months ago.
"What month is this?" I asked.
"June," said he; "June 4th."
"From October to June is a long time," I said.
"Yes, and many things have happened since October eighteen fifty-nine," said he.
"Doctor, are you serious?" I asked.
"On my honour," said he.
"And I have lost eight months of my life?"
"Oh, no; only the memory of the past, and that loss is but temporary. You will get right after a while."
"And what have I been doing for the past eight months?"
"That is what I've been trying to find out," said he; "I am trying now to find your regiment."
"There you go again about my regiment. Do you expect me to accept that?"
"You said you could trust me," he replied; "why should I deceive you? Tell me why you think I may be deceiving you."
"Because--" said I.
"Because what?"
"I fear that you are hiding a worse thing in order to do me good."
"But I gave you my word of honour, and I give it again. These hills around you are covered by an army."
"Where are we?" I asked, in wonder.
"We are near Richmond; within five miles of it."
"What Richmond?"
"In Virginia."
"And what brought me here? Why should I be here?"
"You came here voluntarily, while you were in good health, no doubt, and while your mind acted perfectly."
"But why should I have come?"
"Because your regiment was ordered to come."
"And why should there be an army?"
"Because your country was invaded. You volunteered to defend your country, and your regiment was ordered here."
"Country invaded? Volunteered?"
"Yes."
"Then we are at war?"
"Yes."
"With England?"
"No; not with England, with the United States."
I laughed gayly, perhaps hysterically.
"Now I know that this is a dream," said I.
"Why?"
"The idea of the United States being at war with itself!" I laughed again.
"Take this," said he, and he gave me another potion. He waited a few minutes for the medicine to affect me. Then he said, "Can you remember how many states compose the United States?"
"Thirty-three, I believe," said I.
"There were thirty-three, I suppose, in eighteen fifty-nine," said he; "but now there are not so many. Eleven of the states--the most of the Southern states--have seceded and have set up a government of their own. We call ourselves the Confederate States of America. Our capital is Richmond. The Northern states are at war with us, trying to force us back into the Union, as they call it. War has been going on for more than a year."
"What!"
"Yes," said he; "all these great events required more than eight months."
"More than a year!" I exclaimed; "what year is this?"
"Here is my record," said he; "here is yesterday's record."
He opened it at a page opposite which was a blank page. The written page was headed June 3,1862. Below the heading were written some eight or ten names,--Private Such-a-one, of Company A or B, such a regiment; Corporal Somebody of another regiment, and so on. Upon one line there was nothing written except B. Jones.
Then the doctor brought me a newspaper, and showed me the date. The paper was the Richmond Examiner; the date, Wednesday, June 4, 1862.
"This is to-day's paper," said the doctor.
I laughed.
He continued: "Yes, war has been going on for more than a year. The great effort of the United States army is to take Richmond, and the Confederates have an army here to defend Richmond. Here," he added, "I will show you."
He went to the door of the tent and held back the canvas on both sides.
"Look!"
I looked with all my eyes. My vision was limited to a narrow latitude. I could see tents, their numbers increasing as perspective broadened the view. I could see many men passing to and fro.
"You see a little of it," said he; "the lines extend for miles."
I did not laugh. My hands for the first time went up to my face; I wanted to hide my eyes from a mental flash too dazzling and too false; at once my hands fell back.
I had found a beard on my face, where there had been none before.
I awoke from an uneasy sleep, superinduced, I thought, by the surgeon's repeated potions. My head was light and giddy, but the pain had almost gone. My stomach was craving food.
It was night. Candles were burning on a low table in the middle of the tent. The pallets, other than mine, had disappeared; my dream had changed; the tent seemed larger.
The doctor and two strange men were sitting by the table. I had heard them talking before I opened my eyes.
"I should like to have him, Frank."
Then the doctor's voice said: "I have made inquiry of every adjutant in the brigade, and no such man seems to be missing. But he knows that he is from South Carolina--in fact, his buttons are sufficient proof of that. Then the diary found in his pocket shows the movements of no other brigade than Gregg's. Take him into your company, Captain."
"Can I do that without some authority?"
"You can receive him temporarily; when he is known, he will be called for, and you can return him to his company."
"What do you think of it, Aleck?"
"I think it would be irregular, or perhaps I should say exceptional," said another voice; "the regulations cannot provide for miraculous contingencies."
"The whole thing's irregular," said the doctor; "it's impossible to make it regular until his company is found. What else can you suggest?"
"I don't know. Can't we wait?"
"Wait for what?"
"Wait till we find his people."
"He'll be fit for duty in two days. What'll we do with, him then?--turn him loose? He wouldn't know what to do with himself. I tell you we can't find his regiment, or, at least, we haven't found it, and that he is fit for duty, or will be in a few days; he is not a fit subject for the general hospital, and I wouldn't risk sending him there; Powell would wonder at me."
"Can't you keep him a while longer?"
"I can keep him a few days only; I tell you there is nothing the matter with him. If I discharge him, what will he do? He ought to be attached--he must be attached, else he cannot even get food. It will all necessarily end in his being forced into the ranks of some company, and I want to see him placed right."
"I will not object to taking him if I can get him properly."
"Somebody'll get him. Besides, we can't let him leave us before he has a place to go to. I think I have the right, in this miraculous contingency, as Aleck calls it, to hand him over to you, at least temporarily. Of course you can't keep him always. Sooner or later we'll hear of some regiment that is seeking such a man. His memory will return to him, so that he'll know where he belongs."
"Yes--I suppose so. I am willing to receive him. When. his company is found, of course I shall be compelled to let him go."
"If provision is not made for him, he must suffer. I shall fear for him unless we can settle him in some way such, as I propose. Am I not right, Aleck?"
"Can't you keep him with you as some sort of help?"
"I would not propose such, a thing to him. There could be nothing here for him except a servant's place. He is my man, and I'm going to treat him better than that. By the way, I believe he is awake."
My eyes were wide open. The doctor turned to me and said, "How do you feel now, Jones?"
"Am I here yet?" I muttered.
"Yes. Did you expect to be in two places at once?"
"Where are the others?"
"What others?"
"The five men."
"What five men?"
"The five men on the pallets."
"Oh!--been sent to the general hospital."
"Yes," said I, mournfully; "everything that comes goes again."
"Sound philosophy," said he; "you are getting strong and well. Don't bother your head about what happened last century or last year."
He went to the door and called William.
The negro man came. "Some soup," said the doctor.
The soup was good. I felt better--almost strong. The doctor's friends sat by, saying nothing. The doctor smiled to see me take the soup somewhat greedily.
"Talk to him, Captain," said the doctor.
"My friend," said one of the men, "allow me to ask if you know where you are."
"I know what I've been told," said I.
"You must be good enough to believe it," said he; "you believe it or you doubt it. Do you still doubt it?"
"Yes," I said boldly.
"I can't blame you," said he. His voice was low and firm--a gentleman's voice; a voice to inspire confidence; a voice which I thought, vaguely, I had heard before.
"Yet," he continued, "to doubt it you must be making some theory of your own; what is it, please?"
He spoke with a slight lisp. I noticed it, and felt pleased that I had got to a stage in which, such a trifle was of any interest.
"The only possible theories are that I am dreaming and--"
"Be good enough to tell me another."
He had not interrupted me; I had hesitated.
"I know!" exclaimed the doctor; "he thinks I am concealing worse by inventing a war with all its et ceteras. His supposition does me credit in one way, but in another it does me great injury. Although I have given him my word of honour that I am concealing nothing, he still hangs to his notion that I am lying to him in order to keep from him a truth that might be dangerous to his health. I shall be compelled to call him out when he gets well. Will you act for me, Aleck?"
"With great pleasure," said the man addressed; "but perhaps your friend will make the amende when he knows the injustice of his suspicions."
"Have I told either of you what I have said to Jones about the war?" asked the doctor.
"Certainly not; so far as I have the right to speak," said the Captain. The other man shook his head.
"Then tell Jones the conditions here."
"Oh, Doctor, don't be so hard on me! I accept all you say, although it is accepting impossibilities."
"Then, about your dream theory," said the Captain; "would you object to my asking if you have ever had such a dream--so vivid and so long?"
"Not that I know of," said I.
"You think that Dr. Frost and my brother and I are mere creatures of your fancy?"
The candles did not give a great light. I could not clearly see his features. He came nearer, moving his stool to my side. My head was below him, so that I was looking up at his face. He was a young man. His face was almost a triangle, with its long jaw.
"I believe that dreams are not very well understood, even by the wisest," he said. "Do me the kindness to confess that your present experience, if a dream, is more wonderful than any other dream you have had."
Though my head was dizzy, I thought I could detect a slight tinge of irony in this excessively polite speech.
"I think it must be," I replied; "although I cannot remember any other dream."
"Then, might not one say that the only dream you are conscious of is not a dream?"
"That contradicts itself," said I.
"And you find yourself unable to accept the word of three men that you are not dreaming?"
"Not if they are men of my dream," said I.
"A good retort, sir," he said. "Do me the kindness to tell me your notion of a dream. Do you think it should be consistent throughout, or should there be strong intrinsic proof of its own unrealness?"
"Captain," I said, "I cannot tell. I know nothing. I doubt my own existence."
"Pardon me," said he; "you know the test--you think, therefore you exist. Are you not sure that you think?"
"I think, or I dream that I think."
"Well said, sir; an excellent reasoner while dreaming. But suppose you dream on; what will be the result?"
"Dream and sleep till I awake," said I.
"May I ask where you will awake?"
"In Aiken."
"I know a little of Aiken," said the Captain; "I was there not a year ago."
Naturally the remark was of interest to me.
"When was it?" I asked.
"It was in August, of last year. You remember, Frank, I was recruiting for the reorganized First."
"August of what year?" I asked.
"August eighteen sixty-one, very naturally."
"Gentlemen," said I, "bear with me, I beg you. I am not myself. I am going through deep waters, I know nothing."
"We know," said the doctor; "and we are going to see you through." Then he added: "Captain Haskell came from Abbeville. He has men in his compan